


Ancora Qui

by 00pandoria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, mix of book and show canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-01-13 15:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18471508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00pandoria/pseuds/00pandoria
Summary: The War of the Five Kings drags on and on, and Myrcella Baratheon watches as her world becomes small and colorless. Until a man in her family makes a decision and she’s thrown right into the thick of things, as young women are.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Myrcella’s life, leading up to her imprisonment. 
> 
> The proceeding chapters will be in the past tense. Be warned: there’s a couple of very rough parts in this chapter, a scene of graphic violence and an attempted sexual assault by a family member.

Since she was born, Myrcella had a keen awareness she was beautiful.

It’s her first memory, actually. She was three years old and sitting in her mother's chamber, fiddling with the gold and crimson finery in the jewelry box. For a woman who so relished the freedom that came with being royalty, the queen was very fond of chains and cuffs. Mother sat at her desk, writing something on a piece of parchment. Writing took longer for her than it usually did; she had to sit further back from the desk, to make room for her swollen belly. There was a sizable pile of rings and earrings on the table next to her. She had taken them all out before giving the box to Myrcella, for fear she might put one in her mouth and choke. Joffrey was there with them, snoring softly on Mother's bed.

The sun was low in the sky. Later, she wouldn’t be able to remember if it had been morning or evening; evening, most likely, as her eyes were tired and droopy. She was about to crawl up into the bed, before her eye was caught by something in the box. It was a string of dark red garnets, connected by a chain of gold. She wrapped it around her head like a circlet and looked up at her mother, presenting herself with a bright smile.

Cersei's shoulders shook gently as she laughed. She stood from her chair, crouching down to take Myrcella in her arms and rest her on top of her stomach. She pressed a firm kiss to the top of her head.

"My little princess." She muttered, setting her down on the bed beside her brother. "My beautiful, beautiful girl."

When Myrcella is seven, the Hand of the King sends for her abruptly one evening after supper. Septa Eglantine escorts her to the tower, such a place she's never been allowed before, where grizzled old Jon Arryn explains to her that she will be going to the Sept of Baelor tomorrow with some of the ladies in waiting for Maiden’s day. Eglantine makes an event of it. She spends an hour kneading her hair between her fingers, tying it up in an intricate bun and threading frost-blue pansies into the braids. The morning of, she dresses her all in white; a short coat with long sleeves over a dress that is embroidered along the neckline with grasping vines and chirping birds.

Eglantine takes her to say goodbye to Father on the way out of the keep, and when she twirls for him, he laughs and pats her on the head. As he does so, his stomach jiggles like a bowl of stale oatmeal. It makes her laugh back.

Myrcella wonders if she's dreaming as they enter the Great Sept that morning. She stands alone in the front of a procession of highborn girls, each a picture of feminine beauty in white velvet and silk. They sing like a flock of doves, walking on slippered feet to the statue of the Maiden. The stone lady is dressed not so different from Myrcella herself; in a flowing gown with flowers braided into her grey curls. There are baskets of candles at her feet. Myrcella takes one, and a novice extends a torch for her to light it on. The girls near her all lean down to set their candles aflame off of hers, and the flames spread until the whole room is alight with glowing candles.

One of the ladies puts a string of parchment roses in her hands, and lifts her up off the ground to hang them about the Maiden’s neck. They come face to face, her and the statue, close enough to kiss. The other girls follow her example, chorusing praises in slow, soft voices. When they are finished, the maiden is arrayed entirely in paper flowers.

Myrcella beams all the way back to the Red Keep, thoroughly proud of herself. She doesn’t want to pluck the little pansies out of her hair that night before bed. She knows that she has no real reason to be so pleased with herself, she hasn't actually done anything. Yet, she can't help but feel strong, successful, a salient member of the royal family, and more and better than any of that, she feels meaningful. The purpose of a princess is clearer than it’s ever been before. She has a goal, something to strive for; to be an example for noble ladies, and by extension, a leader for lowborn girls. It's the first time she really feels like her title has value. Not a man’s sort of value, not a prince’s or a king’s, but it's value nonetheless.

Maiden’s day lands just a week after her name day, and she makes it just as much her own occasion. She puts intensive care into preparing for the dat, picking the flowers for her hair herself and sitting with the queen as she commissions her dress. She even goes to the Motherhouse the evening before the celebration, when the Septas are folding parchment into flowers, and provides what little help her young, unskilled hands can offer.

Myrcella can read fluently by the time she's eight, and when she does, she asks Eglantine for a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star. She reads from it every night before she sleeps, and by her next name day, she's finished The Book of The Father, and is starting The Book of The Mother. She sleeps with her hair up to keep it from tangling and doesn’t squirm when the septa combs it, and when she’s alone, she practices doing the complex braids herself. In her lessons, Myrcella dances with as much focus as she can muster until she’s as surefooted as a buck.

Overall, perfecting the womanly arts comes shockingly easy to her, even if there are… hiccups. Truthfully, she dislikes sewing. She finds it difficult and tedious, even painful, when her fingers slip. No one is perfect, but everyone can try, and try Myrcella does. Her first piece of wearable embroidery is a small pair of gloves - red wool with beads sewn in the outline of a roaring lion on the back of each hand. She had always thought she’d give her first piece of wearable embroidery to her mother, but they’re far to small. She considers giving them to Tommen, but they're too big for his tiny pink hands. Her Uncle Stannis has a young daughter, but Shireen doesn’t have Lannister blood, so her family may find the lions inappropriate.

Eventually, Myrcella settles on giving them to Joffrey. He's been asking about a new pair of boots, but knowing him, she thinks he'll settle for any sort of present.

She offers him the gift one morning when they’re walking to breakfast together; they've always walked to breakfast together. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they race each other to the table, sometimes they hold hands, sometimes they argue like yellow kittens in a sack. Either way, it’s a tradition of theirs, and though she’s not sure how it started she has no intention of breaking it.

Joffrey, nearly ten and three years old, takes the gloves from her, and his lips twist into a sneer.  
“Did Clara make these?” He asks, in reference to one of the castle’s novice embroiderers. He rubs the beads between his fingers until one comes off.

Myrcella frowns. “I made them.” She clarifies.

He scoffs. “These stitches are crooked as The Imp’s teeth.” He says, tossing them back in her direction. “They aren't fit for a Prince. Give them to Pate.”

Myrcella has known for some time that her brother is a bully. He likes to tug her braids and pinch her arm and trip her when they dance. Joffrey doesn’t really have friends outside the family, just people who had yet been given a reason to dislike him. Yet still, she has a certain affection for him. Every little girl needs a big brother to protect her, someone once told her. Joff has never been very concerned with protecting her, but he's the only older brother she'll ever have.

They were both born special, Joffrey and Myrcella. He is the eldest son, never allows anyone to forget it, and she’s the only daughter, her position clear to her since birth. Their roles are both important to the advancement of their house; one more so than the other, and each in vastly different ways, but she'd always thought that their importance, their predetermined duty in life, was something they had in common. That it connected them, somehow.

And for a while, it does. They're not too far apart in age, and beside one another, Joff and her are the image of the queen and her brother in their youth. Golden haired, emerald eyed children, dressed in regalia and sitting still in perfect docility. They are what a prince and princess should be.

 

But the aesthetic value Joffrey and Myrcella possess together is far from a virtue, she realizes more and more as they grow older. It comes to her in full force at a feast when she's nine, and the two of them are seated next to one another. She wears a blue gown with white and silver sleeves, Joffrey a blood red velvet tunic, with a black stag’s head on his belt. Their golden crowns match, they smile, they hold hands. They are the future of House Lannister, the legacy of Robert Baratheon.

Father’s eyes catch the two of them from across the hall. Father, who is halfway through his fourth cup of wine and still not drunk enough, a serving girl less than half his age sitting on his lap as if she’s his wife. Father looks at the two of them and all Myrcella can see is lazy, tired distaste, a twitch of his lip and a flare of his nostrils.

It's not so much the look that hurts, but how unprompted it is, how she’s been good, done nothing wrong. She wants to feel loved, or at least liked, and doesn't understand why he looks so displeased. The pretty picture of Joffrey and her is ruined as the smile falls from her face, and her hand clenches in his.

When Joffrey turns ten and four, the king gives him his first sword, and pretends not to be disappointed when Joffrey calls it “Lion’s Tooth.” The younger children are not left out; he gives Tommen an infant faun he found on a hunt, and a promise to take him on a visit to Storm’s End that never comes to fruition.

For her gift, father takes her hand and leads her down a hallway near her bedchamber, insisting it's a surprise. They descend a staircase so narrow he can hardly fit inside. She has to let go of his hand, to walk in front of him. At the bottom of the stairs is a tall, wooden door. She tries to press it open, and barely moves it an inch, before father reaches her, and opens it one handed.

They come upon a short antechamber, with small windows and empty pots along the walls. Beyond is a grassy chamber, sunlight shining through a huge round hole in the ceiling. Four stone pathways make a cross through the greenery, and at their center, a chair and table, with a small silver tea set. It's mostly grass and weeds; a few flowers scattered here and there, but the it’s clearly not meant to be any kind of garden.

Father explains what it is. This room was previously used as a place to have tea by some lord’s elderly mother. The lady has passed away, her son left court for his holdfast. And father says that the chamber is hers now; the gardener, a man named Qarl, can help her plant all the flowers she'd like. Father says within a years time, she could turn it into a proper little garden, and she swells with love for him. Wraps her arms around his stomach and feels, for the first time in a long time, more like a daughter than a princess.

Qarl the Gardener was born on the Blacktyde, a tall fellow with grey stubble on his chin and fifty and seven years to his name. His hair is near as long as mother’s, silver with strands of white and tied back behind his head. Qarl is as sociable as he is quick-witted, as paternal as he is intelligent. He’s a right scholar in Myrcella’s eyes - he teaches her how to breathe life into dead soil, grow Mereenese flowers in the capital of Westeros, weave dandelions into a crown and pull the ticks off of Tommen’s faun without hurting it. His stories of his home, of water monsters and mermaids and voyages to far away lands, could keep her listening for days, sitting cross legged on the floor in the closet he calls his office.

In the pots that line the walls of the antechamber, she grows dark red peonies and golden rod for House Lannister, black petunias and yellow chrysanthemums for House Baratheon. Father and Mother both like those, a rare occurrence in their family. Mother even puts one in her hair.

The true craftsmanship comes to her when she is working in the chamber itself. She has an affinity for pink, so she plants calla lilies shaped like wine flutes, double clematis as fragile as myrish glass and camelias, richly colored and symmetrical. In the corner, she plants a huge bush of purple hydrangeas, and nearby, dusty lisianthus with petals so thin they’re almost translucent. Myrcella grows two strains of bearded iris; one that’s entirely lavender-blue and one that’s white and peach.

She asks father for a bird bath, adds a few coppers to keep the algae from growing, and plants it beside a bush of ceanothus, along with delphiniums in red, coral, and or course pink. Some white would do the garden good, so she plants ivory roses and bellflowers as small as the tip of her fingers, daisies like the maiden’s statue in the sept wears in her hair, and white lilacs as fragrant as sweet perfume. Myrcella can never decide on her absolute favorite flower, but one of them is certainly the pink dahlias. The petals surrounding the dahlia’s green centers are a darker shade of pink than the rest, and the color fades from the center of the flower outwards until it’s cream colored around the edges.

In a matter of months, her garden is the pride of her life, her favorite place to be when lessons are done. When mother has free time, she sits and drinks tea with her in here, as the lady who first owned it intended for it to be used. Father comes in once and he tells her it’s beautiful, mentions something to Ser Barristan about how “she” would’ve loved it here. Qarl helps her with the weeding and dethorns the roses, and Tommen and her play monsters and maidens as his faun sleeps among the daisies.

The only person in her family who never sets foot in Myrcella’s garden is Joffrey. Ten and five years old now, the distance between Joffrey and her has only grown since that seemingly innocuous incident with the gloves. The phase young boys go through of thinking girls are nasty (and constantly talking about it) never seems to leave Joff, and the petty insults and threats he flings at her when he's cross begin to sound less petty.

He’s not one to hit her - raising his hand to a maiden is beneath him, he seems to think. But when Joff’s temper sours, his words become grotesquely, creatively violent. He goes into detail about what he wants to do to her, what he's going to do to her, and his words seem to please him.

Myrcella finds it hard to be scared of him, even when it seemed like that would be the wise choice. As a result, when they fight, they go on and on and on, neither backing down until somebody intervenes. Their parents have distinctly different ways of dealing with this; Mother has little patience for it. She gets annoyed, sending one of them, usually Myrcella, to sit alone in their chamber. Father is supremely good at ignoring their little arguments, but gods forbid they start bickering when he’s drunk, or busy, or just wants silence. Father is a big man; he is tall and wide with a loud, foul mouth. Robert Baratheon has the same capacity for cruelty as he has for kindness, but she rarely bears witness to his very real violent side.

One evening, Myrcella and her brother start shouting at each other across the dinner table, and father brings a platter down on Joffrey’s head. Joff falls forward, striking his head chin on the rim of the table. Mother lets out a shriek so loud one would think she’d been hit, and rushes down to the floor to help her son. The gold platter is left bent and speckled with blood.

Nothing is done to Myrcella, but it’s so harsh, such a sudden and cruel escalation of their stupid little fight that she freezes in spot, her eyes blown wide and her lower lip trembling. She hears shouting from her bed that night, and in the morning, half the breakfast table look like soldiers fresh from battle. Mother has a splint on her hand, Joff a red bump jutting out from his head, and Father, a long scratch on the cheek.

Joffrey is mean and stupid, but not blind. They both realize that the idea to just “stop arguing” is a simple solution to a series of complicated problems, and is unlikely to ever happen. He has enough sense to understand that having a spat in front of either of their parents means no one gets the satisfaction of winning. So they take to trading tame barbs in front of Mother and Father, and save their more vicious taunts for when they’re alone with each other.

Tommen doesn't take part in the feuding of his brother and sister. He meets Joffrey’s cruelty with meek acceptance, keeps his head down and clings to their mother’s skirts. He was a calm baby, if a heavy one, slow to discontent and easy to please. As he grows, she finds herself developing sympathy for him. He lacks the noble purpose she and Joffrey have laid out for them. Second sons are replacements, backup heirs in case something happens to the first born. Tommen will have to make his own glory, find his own place in court as the king’s brother. The uncertainty of the course his life will take awakens something protective in her.

Just before Myrcella turns ten and one, Grandfather visits King’s Landing, and on the evening of his arrival, they eat supper together. Grandfather, Joffrey, Tommen, her, and their father the King. Mother is with the maester, and her empty seat at the table sets an uncomfortable feeling in the air. Her Lord Grandfather valiantly ignores it, and discusses with father the idea of bringing Tommen back with him to Casterly Rock, to foster there until he comes of age.

Tommen sits there, his green eyes wide and bright. He looks so young, so enraptured by this first time he’s ever been the topic of important discussion. She wonders, silently, if grandfather had ever been so young. Ultimately, father says no. He’s opposed to the very idea of sending his children away to foster, and Myrcella can’t decide if that is a good thing or not. Tommen would miss them awfully if he was far away, but as a Prince of the Iron Throne at Casterly Rock, he might have had a chance to feel special, garner the extra attention people were so eager to bestow upon Joffrey and her.

None of that matters though. Casterly Rock, the ancient homestead of the Lannisters, seems as distant to Myrcella as the Seven Heavens, and Storm’s End even more so. Her Uncle Renly, the lord of Storm’s End, about his ancestral homestead the way her father talks about a particularly enjoyable whore; appreciative, but critical and without true affection. She says that to her Uncle Tyrion once. He laughs with the power of a man twice his size, and she glows with pride for the rest of the day.

She has four uncles at court. Jaime, who lets her hold his sword and makes Mother smile when she’s sad, Tyrion, who is never far from laughter and makes her feel smart, Renly, who sneaks her peach tarts before dinner and gives her little gifts even when there’s no occasion, and Stannis, who is easy enough to respect and always pushes them to be their best.

More than enough uncles, and she loves them all, or at least tries too. But Myrcella only has one Aunt. Selyse Baratheon is frightening, the tight lipped, miserable old woman. She’s heard talk of a daughter they have, and begs her father, publically, to bring her to court until Uncle Stannis sits her down one day and explains how people treat those afflicted with Greyscale, why no one wants to have Shireen at the capital.

And so, Myrcella never meets the closest thing to a sister she might have found. When she’s ten and one, she draws a picture of what she thinks Shireen must look like - a lovely, sad girl with a stone bruise on her cheek. Mother takes the picture when she's done with it and puts it in a drawer. A few weeks later, she has a new handmaiden.

Ellyn is a month her senior, the only niece of the Lord of Banefort. She’s a thin girl with an ovular chin, big ears, and shiny black eyes. Her hair is smooth and straight, of the dark, umber brown color typical to House Banefort. Her skin is a bit darker than Myrcella’s - she has spent much more time outside. Every day, Ellyn wears a pendant of iron and orange seaglass, a style from the Iron Islands that’s been popularized in the Banefort due to it’s proximity to Pyke. She’s the sort of girl that’s easy to trust, attentive and maidenly yet approachable, not extravagantly wealthy or overly proper.

They take to one another straight away. There’s something about Ellyn’s wide eyed wonder when she shows her the Red Keep that reminds Myrcella that there is a world outside King’s Landing. Ellyn had never left Banefort before coming to the city, and was eager to talk about her home. It’s colder in the Westerlands than it was here, she says, and the air was cleaner and sweeter smelling. The mother of Ellyn’s bastard brother tends to the cranberry fields near the Banefort, and Ellyn would sometimes be allowed to wade through them when they flooded. It’s a strange thing to aspire to for someone of her status, but Myrcella would like to do that one day - wander through the cranberry bogs of the Westerlands.

She has a dream about it, just after her next name day. In her sleep, Myrcella walks alone through a vast, endless field, knee deep in cold water saturated with cranberries. There are no waves, no currents; her movement is the only disruption in the water. Clouds hang low in the night sky, and the moon is shining brightly, bigger than she’s ever seen it. She walks for what feels like hours, each step carving a path through the cranberries that closes up once she's moved on. After what feels like hours, she takes a berry from the water, and tentatively, raises it up to her mouth.

Myrcella wakes to pale sunlight and a sour taste in her mouth, thoroughly unsatisfied.

She tells Ellyn about this, and that morning, they think up a list of all the places they’d like to visit before they die. The cranberry bogs in the Westerlands are first, then Casterly Rock. Blacktyde in the Iron Isles, where Qarl was born, comes next, then the Summer isles, then Storm’s End, then Oldtown, then Winterfell. They promise each other that they’ll see them all one day, and they’ll do it together, no matter what happens, no matter who they marry.

And then, Jon Arryn dies.

She had no great love for the hand of the king. He was a kind man, though, friendly and dutiful and a constant presence in her life. Myrcella musters up some tears for the hand’s funeral, and three days later, her family is packed into a wheelhouse the size of a small inn, and they start the long and arduous journey to Winterfell.

Ellyn and her are excited, at first, and write their list down on paper just for the satisfaction of crossing off Winterfell. There are no windows, so they can’t watch the landscape slowly evolve as they make their way out of the city and into the country. But when they stop to camp each night, they go exploring, and as the months pass, they witness the transition of South to North. The air is easier to breath, yes, but it also carries more moisture. Every day gets colder and colder, each one shorter than the last. Myrcella’s nose and cheeks are always pink, and Ellyn’s hand is as cold as ice when she holds it. The frigidity signals their approach to Winterfell, and the day it reaches its apex is the day they arrive.

The castle is expansive, an amalgamation of high towers and long hallways and too many rooms to remember them all. She doesn’t get to spend as much time with Ellyn as she’d like to; her handmaiden isn’t welcome in the planned interactions between her and the Stark ladies. Sansa, the oldest daughter, is kind, flattering and wistful, a girl with thick auburn hair and gorgeous blue eyes. Her little sister is Arya, a long faced, grey eyed girl who seems more than a little uncomfortable with all the pomp and glamor that follows the royal family. Sansa makes polite conversation; questions about her embroidery, if she has any pets, when her nameday is. Arya doesn’t seem to want her company, so Myrcella gives her her space. House Stark feasts them upon their arrival, and father pairs her up with Robb, the oldest Stark boy and heir to his house.

Her mind is drawn back to a daydream of her wedding day as Robb leads her into the main hall. She holds his arm in hers, shooting the boy shy looks as he escorts her to their table. Robb is five years her senior, six and ten and beautiful, with brown-red curls just like his mother and fair, smooth skin. His grin is sweet as honey, his eyes warm as the rising sun. She tries not to stare at him too much, but when he does, inevitably notice it, Robb smiles, and says his family is happy to have her.

When Uncle Tyrion, after the meal, comments on the “little lovers,” her heart flutters, and she dares to hope she might be wed to him one day.

The joy and excitement of their voyage dissipates like smoke in the wind when Bran, Tommen’s little friend, falls from a tower and into a deep, unmoving sleep. Winterfell’s cold air becomes strained and stagnant, the castle holding it’s breath, waiting for the child to wake or to die. Lady Stark parks herself at his bedside like a sentry, and does not come out to see them off, when they leave for home. Her absence makes Myrcella a little glum. She had liked her. She had liked Bran.

There is a change in the Red Keep, when they return. Stark men stalk the halls, stoic and foreign, and the whispers that have always lingered in the background seem to grow louder, more threatening. Something is going to break soon, she can feel it. Myrcella resigns herself to the garden, tending the flowers with Qarl if only to escape it all for just a little while.

Father is the next to go. King Robert is speared in the gut by a boar, hunting in the Kingswood. Myrcella doesn’t have to force herself to cry, then. She will miss him, some parts of him at least. All the booming laughs and the big hands ruffling her hair, those days when she would be allowed to sit on his lap, to listen to his false promises.

Lord Arryn, Bran Stark, and now father. She counts them on her fingers, the tears dripping down her face.

Joff is crowned king. Lord Stark disagrees. He is dragged from the throne room, his grey eyes, so much like his daughter, alight with fear. She can’t compel that look to leave her mind. It never will, she later discovers.

In those next few days, Myrcella does not stray beyond her apartments for a second. She sits on her bed alone, picks flowers with Sansa in her garden and reads The Seven Pointed Star. Servants she’s never met bring her food and empty her chamber pot, and she lets them do it without question.

A week later, Lord Stark joins father in the grave, his head lobbed off by the tongueless man. The Book of The Mother ends, and she begins The Book of The Warrior.

Sansa’s lovely face goes from pale to completely colorless, pink streaks running down her cheeks. She curtsies and nods, the smile fixed on her mouth like a sign nailed to a door. A shot of cold water runs through Myrcella’s heart every time they meet eyes, which she does her best to ignore.

Joffrey is king, but so is Stannis, Renly, Balon, and Robb. By the time Myrcella turns ten and three, Uncle Renly is a corpse, Uncle Jaime is a captive, and Robb a vile traitor. The Young Wolf, they call him. They say he can turn into a direwolf, a great stalking beast with blood dripping from it’s teeth. He eats the hearts of his enemies and drinks the blood of their children. A raper, a cannibal, a slack-jawed, drooling monster.

Sansa… Sansa agrees. She loses weight, no matter how much food they have, her skin colored with purple, blue, red and yellow. Joffrey exults in the pain he causes, struts around the castle in golden silks and maroon velvets. Mother is always tugging at his arm, whispering in his ears, but he doesn’t listen to her. He doesn’t listen to anyone anymore. Somehow, that’s scarier than all the dying.

The world must be ruled by monsters, Myrcella muses, sitting in the docks with Ellyn one day, their fingers intertwined. Joffrey and Robb, Balon the reaver and Stannis the kinslayer. She can’t decide what she wants to happen, who she wants to win. Ellyn and her should just jump into the water, she thinks, swim to someplace far away, someplace nice like the Summer Isles where there is no war.

The Garden, the Docks, the Sept. Myrcella is drawn to those places because of their scent, the sweet smells of flowers and salt water and candle wax. The stink of King’s Landing has grown stronger, more thick and more foul, touched with blood and rotting flesh. When she leaves the Red Keep, she passes children with swollen bellies and old women sleeping under bridges. She offers gold dragons to beggars and buys things she doesn’t need for more than they’re worth. Myrcella returns to the castle with armfuls of shriveled fruit and wooden trinkets, her coin purse empty. For a little while that makes it bearable.

Until. Until one day, she somehow finds herself behind a wine sink and she sees a little bundle, lain against the wall. The bundle doesn’t move, but she can just barely see a tiny, grey hand, dead still and sticking out of it’s - of their roughspun swaddling.

Myrcella manages three, stumbling steps before her mouth opens and she vomits, and resolves never to leave the Red Keep again. When maiden’s day comes, she must leave the keep, or be suspected as a whore, as Uncle Tyrion gently explains to her when she tells him she doesn’t want to go. The smell of wax is familiar and comforting, and the girls sing in soft, lovely tones, but she feels nothing as she hangs the flowers about the statue’s stone neck. It feels like nothing.

She and Ellyn remain close, Qarl works with her in the garden, and Tommen is still young enough to listen to his stories. But Ellyn and Qarl are both servants, Tommen a young prince, and they cannot always be with her. Normally, she’d try to spend more time with mother, but mother is around Joffrey more than she used to be. The best way to avoid her older brother is to linger in the Tower of The Hand, reading absentmindedly as Uncle Tyrion attends to his duties. He is the only uncle Myrcella has left, the girl who used to have so many. They talk sometimes, and he lets slip that he was thoroughly considering having her married off, before Grandfather got wind of his plans somehow and forbade it. Her maidenhead is too valuable an asset to give away, it seems.

Myrcella has been taught to pray for those she hates, so she prays for her Grandfather that evening, and thinks about fucking every stable boy in Westeros and Essos too. She feels ashamed in the morning, because of course she does, she knew she would. She begs the Gods for forgiveness, and tries her hardest to mean it.

Her four and tenth nameday brings her a pair of new handmaidens. Joy Hill, her mother’s bastard cousin, and Rosamund Lannister, a more distant relative. When they first meet, Joy hugs her like they’ve known each other their entire lives. She has a plain sort of beauty; a pointy nose, thin pink lips and shamrock green eyes. Her hair is long, flaxen and frizzy in the (noticeably dwindling) heat. Joy is inexplicably happy to see her, to see Ellyn too, two girls she’s never met before in her life. It’s a pleasant surprise, especially in a place like King’s Landing. But there’s something about her affection, her hunger for friendship, that feels... starved, like she craves it not because of who they are but because of how she’s been deprived of it for so long.

Rosamund Lannister has the opposite reaction. She’s a girl on the shorter side, with pin-straight yellow hair, huge grey-green eyes and a button nose. Her courtesies are polished, her demeanor tentative and guarded. She wants to be in King’s Landing as much as a mouse wants to be in a snake’s mouth, and has no clue how much that feeling is mutual. Very few people really like it here, nobody who was born here and didn’t choose to migrate to the capital.

By the time Myrcella is six and ten, the sun-gold locks reaching down her back have grown long enough for her to sit on the ends. Her hair curls up into waves when it’s wet, but she combs it straight every so often. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock are all sharp-faced and feline, while the Lannisters of Lannisport have soft, curving features. Myrcella takes more after the Lannisport side, with her round cheeks and wide eyes, but the straightness of her nose is reminiscent of the Casterly Rock line. Her lips are pink and sculpted, her eyes a dark shade of forest green. There's a dip in her throat, and it draws attention to her prominent collarbone and... everything southron of that. Her hips widened at some point, and her breasts have filled out, ripe as summer fruit. A guardsmen in his cups makes that comparison. A court singer pontificates about her beauty, her “doe eyes” and “rosy lips.”

She will have to marry soon, and the thought excites her. Myrcella could be betrothed to a pox-ridden hedge knight thrice her age, and she would throw herself into his arms if only it meant she could leave King’s Landing, leave the starving people and the battered Stark girl and the dead babies. A wedding is a chance at control, and it is only when she is contemplating marriage that she realizes how helpless she has felt, how worthless in the face of injustice, and for how long.

One night, she is out on her balcony, surveying Blackwater Bay. Joy is there with her, talking about her father, how much she misses him. Myrcella listens intently, until someone knocks on her door.

She is greeted by a short, tight lipped man, wearing the crown’s sigil. Myrcella has been summoned to the king’s own bedchamber, he tells her. She is confused for a moment, and tells him that she can’t dine with her brother, she’s already eaten supper for the evening.

The man says he knows.

Myrcella throws a pink velvet robe on over her white lace and follows him to Joffrey’s chamber. It is very late, and the Red Keep is quiet. She and the man both move slowly, his armor clinking and her gown whispering against the stone.

The curtains in the King’s chambers are drawn, the candles dripping and burnt low. Myrcella can smell strongwine in the air, and notices a decanter on a table, almost empty.

Joffrey is a man now, nearly twenty and two years old. The courtly maidens like to stare at their unwed king, tall and strong as he is, with broad shoulders, a square jaw and large, fast hands. His lips are full and plump, similar to hers, and his hair hangs to his shoulders in golden ringlets. Those are similar to hers too, yet he finds a way to seem masculine despite his yellow locks. It’s his beard, most likely; thick and full, not unlike the late King Robert.

Her brother sits leaned back on a chaise, his skin dappled with sweat. The black silks he wears tonight are lavish, but disheveled. His green eyes are glassy and tinged with pink. They catch her as she enters, and he orders his man to leave.

Joffrey rises to greet her, faltering twice as he crosses the room. Her body goes rigid as he approaches her to press a kiss to her cheek, barring the door behind her. He returns to the chaise, inviting her to sit beside him. There’s no one around, yet he is acting jovial and charismatic, even in his drunkenness. It puts Myrcella on edge.

She sits beside him on the chaise, clasping her hands in her lap. He pours her a cup of wine, one hand wrapping around her. His hand is hot and damp where it grasps the conjunction of her neck and shoulder. He invites her to take off her robe, to make herself comfortable. She does so without protest. His eyes are far more bloodshot from up close, blinking much too often, and Myrcella tries to force herself not to track which parts of her body he is looking at.

They make a clumsy attempt at conversation. Joffrey asks her about the embroidery on her gown and how she’s liking her new handmaidens. He’s heard nasty rumors of Ellyn, calls Joy ‘the bastard’, and thinks Rosamund is meek and uninteresting. Myrcella answers every question without contradiction. It hurts her to know how people talk about Ellyn; they think she’s sleeping with the cook’s daughter. It’s a rude rumor, even if it’s probably true.

She doesn’t tell that to Joffrey, choosing instead to remark that she doesn’t pay attention to gossip. He says that’s good of her, though there may very well be some truth to it. They can never be sure, Joff says, unless someone catches them at it. After all, women cannot get each other pregnant. And even if they could. Ellyn hasn’t flowered yet.

Myrcella swallows, and informs him that Ellyn has.

The feeling in the air sours. Joffrey seems to have come to the point, and that point is to ask her if she has had her blood yet.

Myrcella isn’t sure if she should tell the truth or not, but she knows it makes no matter. She hasn’t bled yet. People whisper that she’s barren, almost seven and ten and not yet a woman.

Yes. Joffrey knows. And he tells her as such. He tells her women like her, barren women, couldn’t be trusted; they could do whatever they wanted with as many men as they wanted and no one would ever know.

She does not know what she’s supposed to think, when her brother, her king, asks her to pull down her bodice. She has never been taught how to act in this situation, how it is proper to respond. For five seconds, she just keeps still, praying she’ll disappear, or wake up, or one of their hearts will burst, or something. Her mouth is full of dust, she can’t speak beyond “what,” as if whatever clarification he had to offer was going to be better.

His voice drops a tone when he has to ask again. Her mind is blank as her fingers drift up to her neckline, but she cannot - she cannot make them them move, she is quivering too hard, she is too close to tears.

Joffrey stands, one hand wrapping around her elbow to pull her up with her. He is always far away atop the throne, and it has allowed her to forget how much taller than her he actually is, how much bigger. A small sound escapes her mouth as his fingers tighten around her arm, and she shudders as he barks to pull down the front of her dress. She will do as he commands, he is her brother, he is her king and she will obey.

A fleck of spit hits her cheek, and her vision blurs with tears. She can feel the panic creeping up on her, the dam within her beginning to crack.

Joffrey perceives this, and softens. Some of the anger drains from his eyes, leaving only bare, dizzying lust. Her name escapes his lips on a breath, Myrcella, and he releases her elbow, his free hands dipping beneath the straps of her dress and sliding them off. He gives a light tug and she can feel cool air on her breasts, and then, and then, his hands.

He is touching her. His fingers trace the edges of her teats until he comes to hold one in each of his hands, running his thumbs across her nipples. He gives a very soft squeeze, saying something in a cautious tone; as if crooning to a frightened deer as he strokes it’s nose. She is shaking so hard her teeth clack together, shivering like a bird in a hunters hand.

His head turns downwards.

Every nerve in Myrcella’s body jolts alive as the hot stroke of his tongue hits her. Her leg shoots backwards, putting a foot of distance between them. The pace of her heartbeat increases so quickly it scares her, and she finds her voice to say “No,” firmly and conclusively, though she can't keep the taste of desperation out of her mouth.

Joffrey crosses the distance between them in a single step, grabs her by the upper arms and presses her to the ground. Her knees buckle under their combined weight, and they're both on the ground before her hands can even attempt to reach his chest. His legs are much heavier than hers, she realizes with gut-sinking horror, and she can't do much but twist her legs fitfully,

 _“Joffrey!”_ Myrcella screams. She screams his name as she remembers it, as she has not addressed him in years now, not since before he became king. _We used to walk to breakfast together, remember?_ His legs are trying to force hers apart, her arms pinned to the ground with inexhaustible force. _My first word was your name._ She'd rather them both be dead than be here right now, killed in the bread riots or starved in the street. Kill us both now, she calls up to the Mother, never let me have to think about this again.

It ends as quickly as it began, after a minute or so. She sobs as the hem of her dress tears, but her voice is cut off by the heavy creak of the door opening. Joffrey rises up off her, and it's all the chance she needs to scurry backwards out from under him, tears she hadn't realized she was shedding streaking down her face all the while.

Sansa Stark is twenty years old now, tall and lithe as a beech tree and just as pale. Her face wasn't always as gaunt as it is now, framed by red hair that flows down her back in a shiny, river-like stream. Her fingers and legs are long and bony. She is wearing a day dress of violet brocade, the usual blank look on her face accented with a vague sense of shock.

Joffrey stands and walks towards her, slow as a striking snake. His eyes are wide and wild, a sharp contrast to the cool expression on the rest of his face.

Myrcella can hear him warn her, just barely through her own tears, never to tell anyone, never to even think about what she saw here tonight, or else he’ll - oh, oh, he’ll do something, but she cannot bear to think about anything like that right now. She doesn't know why he leaves his own chambers, doesn't know where he's going - but she doesn't really care.

 _Why should I?_ She thinks distantly. _The going ons of a stranger are not my business._

Sansa sits down, wordlessly, beside her where she's settled, against a wall with her legs pressed to her chest. Somehow, Myrcella’s head ends up on her shoulder.

They sit there until the sun begins to rise. At one point, Sansa asks if this is the first time he's done this. She only nods, not wanting to hear her own voice.

When the moon is just a pale shade in the sky, Myrcella decides it is time to leave. She rises with a polite “goodbye, thank you” and walks on aching legs to the door.

Sansa says that if that ever happens again, she should tell her mother.

Myrcella turns, a bleeding hole in her heart, and informs her that nothing happened.

A deep purple bruise blooms up on the side of her knee, the size and shape of a mango. She ignores it at first, until the limp she's been walking with becomes too noticeable and she goes to see a maester. He rubs it down with pine tar, wraps it up in silk bandages, and tells her not to walk too much for a day or so. She takes his advice and builds on it, staying in her chamber for three days without leaving even once. Tommen peeks in on the fourth day, young and worried and lonely, and Myrcella makes herself return to court after that.

Joffrey and her, through tacit agreement, never speak of that night again. If it’s because he is concerned about his reputation, which she seriously doubts, or because he’s as afraid as she is of what would happen if, gods forbid, their mother ever found out, she cannot say. It doesn’t really matter; to Joffrey, it’s as if nothing ever happened. She supposes it’s better that way, but there’s really no such thing as secrets in the Capital. The courtiers, the ladies especially, can see how she flinches from his touch, how she avoids him when she can and keeps to herself when he’s around.

Two days before she turns seven and ten, she finishes The Book of The Maiden, and wakes up with blood between her legs. She tells Uncle Tyrion before she tells anyone else, and he seems pleased in a pragmatic, businesslike way. He asks her, though it won’t matter very much, who she would prefer to be married to.

Tybalt Crakehall is the man she names. The heir to a wealthy Westerlands house, around her age, far from the Red Keep and honorable enough, from what she’s heard. It’s extremely unlikely to happen, but she can hope for it. She has to hope for something.

For her seven and tenth name day, Myrcella wears a gown of flowing, pale green silk, with a neck and the smallest sleeves covering her shoulders. Lines of gold streak down the bodice like the roots of a tree, and she lets her hair run loose down her back, kept from her face by a thin golden pin. A tourney is hosted in the Red Keep for the occasion.

The only smile she can manage is a small one, given Joffrey’s close proximity. It looks more shy than pained, or at least she hopes it does. Myrcella sits high atop a dias, Sansa and her mother at her right side and Joffrey and Tommen at her left. She gives her favor to Ser Arys, watching lances splinter against shields with glazed over eyes.

She doesn’t pay much heed to the gifts, except for the last one. As the night winds to a close, a servant approaches the dias with a small box of carved walnut wood. He sets it in front of her; it’s a gift from her Lord Uncle, with all affectionate courtesies. She opens it, and inside is a signet ring. It’s hewn of pale gold, stamped with a bent legged stork with a tiny diamond where it’s eye should be. It reminds her of something she can’t quite remember, something she hasn’t seen in a very long time.

Not so long ago, she’d have thought it a sweet gift. And it is, she supposes, even if the implication of the stork, the obvious symbol of childbirth, is a little on the nose. She slips it onto her ring finger nonetheless, and it becomes apart of her daily wardrobe.

When the air has lost its warmth entirely and winter is close on the horizon, Myrcella is sent away. She, Rosamund and Joy cannot stay in the capital; it is no place for three young Lannister women, not as the Young Wolf moves in on the capital. Ellyn can come with her, thank the gods, one servant the only luxury she’s allowed. Her uncle must’ve taken her request to wed Tybalt Crakehall to heart, because Crakehall is exactly where they’re headed. The castle is fortified, yet not opulent or conspicuous. Travelling through the Westerlands is dangerous nowadays, but they’ll be doing so modestly and under heavy secrecy.

It’s been nearly a decade since the Red Keep was a place of comfort to her. There isn’t much keeping her here; Qarl will take care of her garden, and Mother can take care of herself. Her heart breaks to leave Tommen alone in this pit of adders and Sansa alone with the king. And yet, she can’t deny the budding light of hope in her chest. There’s a good chance she’ll end up wed to Tybalt after all, and never have to come back to the Capital.

The plain cloak and dress they veil her in to hide her royal status are brown and black - the Crakehall colors. Myrcella spends the first few days of their commute staring out of the window, dreaming of what he’ll look like. She chides herself; how can she be so wistful for a man she’s never met? But the mood on the carriage is cold and tense, so there’s no real reason to force herself to be more present. And besides, who are her childish fantasies harming but herself, if she ends up being let down?

Ten days into the voyage, a storm hits, the rain battering down on them in cold sheets that hurt when they burst on flesh. The driver is soaked to the bone, and she doubts the four guardsmen that are riding behind can see more than two feet in front of them.

They barely last twenty minutes in the rain before the driver stops them at an inn. It’s a tiny little place called “The Silver Thumb,” the sort that can’t have more than five guests at any given time. The innkeeper doesn’t seem suspicious of them; he’s a kindly old man with greying brown hair and a warm, wrinkly smile. He serves them crusty bread, smoked fish and wild mushroom soup, and they eat their food beside a low burning fire. The only stranger in the parlor is a sharp-faced, black haired fellow, who sits eating in the other corner of the room. Myrcella wouldn’t think much of him, if he didn’t keep glancing at Joy. The other girls notice it too, and they opt to turn in early.

Rosamund and Joy share a bed in the room next to hers, and Ellyn rooms in the stables with the driver, so Myrcella will be sleeping alone. The idea is hardly attractive to her. To stave off her loneliness, she hovers in their room for a little while, conversing with Joy in quiet tones as she picks the braids out of her hair. She’s in decent spirits, but Rosamund has been uneasy this entire trip. Rosa lays down, but doesn’t fall asleep, her arms wrapped tight around her midsection. It’s pitch black outside when Myrcella finally leaves, hoping that she’s exhausted enough to go to sleep quickly. The girls are asleep in each others arms, and Rosamund still manages to look scared, even now that she’s finally nodded off.

Her personal guard, a man named Albett, stands outside her room, hand on his sword hilt, ready to strike. The force that rides with them is only four strong; they’d have far more protection if their voyage wasn’t so thoroughly hidden from the public. Very few people even know they’ve left the Keep. Myrcella bids the man a soft goodnight, and he nods in response.

The door opens with a loud creak. It’s for one person, so there is no furnace, and the bed takes up most of the space. The dark wooden rafters are close to her head, and a beeswax candle drips idly onto the windowsill. Rain beats violently against the pane, the downpour and her breathing the only noise in the room. Myrcella slips out of her cloak, balls it up and tucks it in the corner of the room. She kneels before the bed and intones a quick prayer before throwing back the quilt and lying down underneath, pulling her knees close to her chest.

The orange quilt is even colder than the air, so much so that she shivers furiously as she waits for it to get warmer. She is exhausted, but she can’t force the beating of her heart to slow. She can only wait.

Myrcella doesn’t really know how much time goes by before she finally falls asleep. The last thing she can remember is moving her foot a few inches to the side, and immediately recoiling from the cold. She stays curled up in her pocket of heat, noting that the rain has let up a little bit.

 _I’ll rise early to see the sunrise,_ she thinks, _and wake Ellyn to watch it with me._

The next time she opens her eyes, it’s because there is somebody screaming outside.

Not outside of the inn; outside in the hallway. It’s a man screaming, Myrcella thinks immediately, not Joy or Rosamund or Ellyn. She bursts up and out from the covers, clambering over to the side of the bed as fast as her legs will carry her. There are footsteps heavier than any she recognizes in the hallway, more than one set of them, moving around so quickly she cannot tell who’s going what way or where.

She’s halfway to the door when it swings open, banging against the wall with a loud thud. A man rushes into her room, and she stumbles back from his approach, tripping over her ankles and almost falling over before the man’s arm wraps around her waist and he presses her hard against him. Her arm is crushed between her body and his side, her head against his shoulder. Sword outstretched, he hauls her into the hallway, waving it at nothing in front of him. The man outside has not stopped screaming, even as his voice begins to break.

Albett lays dead against the wall, a long stream of dark red blood running down his stomach from a hole in his breast. His mouth hangs open, and yet, the screams do not come from him. As her captor drags her to the stairs, Myrcella just barely glimpses another man, clothed in black with a white sun sigil on his breast. He’s the one howling like a stabbed animal; his hands are risen to his face, and above his straining mouth, his eyes are red, wet, empty. Empty like Rosamund and Joy’s bedroom, Myrcella thinks, stealing a look through their open door.

The man holding her pulls her down the stairs with him, so fast Myrcella cannot find her footing. It’s freezing in the parlor, and the innkeep stands petrified in the corner of the room. The door is already ajar, wind blowing the rain inside. Myrcella finally finds it in her to slam her free arm against the man’s chest, trying to force herself away from him. He only pulls her tighter, so much so that it hurts, and rushes them outside into the cold air.

A cart with caged windows, the sort that is used to carry prisoners to the wall, is waiting.

The door is open, a man heading towards it with Ellyn in his arms. The way he’s carrying her and her white bedgown make it seem like she’s a bride on her wedding day, until he drops her in the back of the cart like a sack of salt. Faintly, Myrcella can hear someone sobbing in high, chirpy voice she recognizes as Joy. Suddenly, the only thing she wants is to see them.

Her captor releases her into the cart and she falls, her head colliding with someone’s chest. The door is flung shut behind them with a conclusory slam.

Ellyn puts a hand under Myrcella’s arm, helping her to rise from the floor. It takes her a minute to get up on her knees, and another to survey her surroundings. The only light source is the moon, filtering in from between the barred windows above her head. Joy is weeping in a corner, dressed only in her small clothes. Aside her is Rosamund, her hair hanging in front of her face in wild disarray. She seems unhurt, but her eyes are huge and vacant and her hands are soaked in blood. She turns her head, and Ellyn is looking to her for directions, or maybe just to see if she’s alright. Her face is grim and pale as cotton.

Slowly, Myrcella turns, uncomfortably calm. The door doesn’t look locked, not from this side, even though they all know it must be. She scoots over on her knees; there’s no handle, so she presses against it with the palms of her hands. She can feel a hardness behind the middle of the door. It’s barred, she hears herself say. Joy lets out a sob.

Ellyn whispers from behind her, quiet as the grave. What should we do, she asks.

Myrcella just sits there, waiting for the panic to seep into her.

Finally, she turns to look at the girls behind her. She must have an awful expression on her face, because Ellyn’s jaw ripples, distraught. She doesn’t need to speak, because there are no dullards in this wagon. They know there’s nothing to do.

Nothing to do but wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella, her cousins and her handmaiden in captivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter, except for. I don't know, illness. I'm open to all comments, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, in case anyone was wondering where I got the title from; it's from a song called "Ancora Qui" (italian for "still here") by Ennio Morricone and Elisa Toffoli.

When they first got here, all Joy could do was cry.

She never stopped shuddering and her arms never left her midsection. Joy had been in her small clothes when they were taken, a raiment of thin white wool that left her calves and shoulders exposed. Their cell had two small pallets, but no blankets, and they could feel every gust of wind through the stone walls. 

Myrcella wiped the loose strands of hair from her face, told her it’d be alright, but it didn’t help. Joy only croaked a “leave me alone,” barely intelligible through her tears. She tried to let her be, but it made them all uncomfortable to just ignore her, listening to rain and anguished sobs. Ellyn went to sit by her on the pallet, whispering for her to calm down and rubbing her back gently. She was far more persistent in her attempts to console her, and actually got her to stop crying for a few minutes or so, until someone wondered aloud what was going to happen to them. Joy’s breath hitched, her chest contracted, and within the next ten seconds she had devolved back into weeping.

When the sun started to set on their first day, Joy rose from her spot in the corner of the room and strode up to the door. If driven by the cold or just wounded pride, Myrcella couldn’t say. But she stood up on her toes and beat her fist against the wood, shouting for someone to bring her some clothes, she was freezing.

Ellyn jumped. She began to tell her to stop, but before she could finish, the guard - a tall man with a massive stomach and thick brown beard - flung open the door, grabbed her by the arm and told her to shut her mouth.

Joy’s mouth did shut, fast as an iron trap. She stiffened, putting one hand on his chest to keep him from getting too close. He swiped it away, repeating himself in crasser words this time - keep her fucking mouth shut, he demanded.

Myrcella didn’t think about what she was doing; automatically, she came up behind Joy and took her shoulder, pulling her back from the guard.

“I’m so sorry.” She heard herself say, her voice low and steady. She could feel the man’s breath on her face, hot and foul smelling. So sorry, she said, but Joy is cold and it’s making her hysterical. She just needs them to give her something to wear, a shawl, a cloak maybe, and they’ll all be okay. There’s no need for anyone to get upset.

The man told her she’d get a fist in her mouth if she didn’t stop shouting, turned away and left. That seemed to kill the hope of warmer accommodations, but Joy shook free from Myrcella’s grasp and pressed her ear up against the door. After a few seconds, she drew back. Joy smiled, tear tracks still marring her face, and declared triumphantly that she had heard him talking to someone down the hall, and they were going to bring them new clothes in the morning.

Ellyn’s tight frown didn’t budge an inch, but she insisted that that was wonderful news. She was still dressed in her bedgown, like Myrcella and Rosamund, but she had something no one else had - slippers. Her handmaid was more tightly wound than Myrcella had ever seen her; a crow squaked from outside their cell earlier that day, and she had started as if someone slapped her. There were red bruises on her thigh from how she’d been held when they were taken, and her fingernails were bitten down to the quick. She alternated between pacing restlessly around the cell and sitting near Myrcella on their pallet, her teeth grinding together furiously.

Myrcella didn’t want to tell Joy that it was a bad idea to pound on the door. She was in no state to be reprimanded, but she came close to getting hurt, and would certainly be struck if she did that again. Myrcella was cold herself; the neckline of her bed gown was obscenely low and the silk collected no warmth, but she wasn’t about to go asking for a blanket or dress. Their best course of action was to make themselves as unobtrusive as possible. Be sweet and scared and request nothing unless someone was going to die if they didn’t get it, that was how she intended to survive and keep all her friends alive.

Rosamund had nothing to say about Joy’s tears or her clothes. She sat alone on the floor, everyone else giving her a wide berth. Rosa had never shown any inclination towards violence, but she’d clawed the eyes out of the Karstark soldier who tried to take her like a rabid animal. The Karstarks had murdered her little brothers; the white sun sigil held more weight to Rosa than anyone else, but still, such sudden, shocking aggression unsettled them all.

The first thing Myrcella did when they were thrown in this room was take a ladle of water from the bucket by the door. Quickly, she took Rosa’s hands in her own and rubbed the dried blood away. There was no soap, though, and she couldn’t get it out from under her fingernails. The top of Rosamund’s dress was still spattered with droplets of blood, and her hair hung limp over her face. She looked like an entirely different person.

Sleep didn’t come at all, that first night. The storm that had sent them to the inn spearheaded a long streak of bad weather - in the morning, it had been cold, damp, and drizzling, but the evening brought another downpour that showed no signs of ending. The raindrops were fat and frigid, loudly beating down on the stone wall of their cell. The one barred window high up near the ceiling let in no small amount of water, almost putting out one of the torches. Myrcella had to drag her and Ellyn’s pallet to the other side of the room to keep it from getting soaked.

She lie down facing the wall, the stone floor pressing her shoulder through the straw. Ellyn’s back was up against hers, and she was wide awake, staring at the door. Every time a noise came from the hallway, Myrcella could feel her tense. Rosamund didn’t even lie down to sleep, and Joy curled up on their pallet, weeping all through the night. After a few hours of lying awake, Myrcella thought she should be annoyed with her, but it wasn’t as if she was going to be able to sleep anyways.

Sunrise brought a woman. She was a maid of some sort from the looks of her, with black hair in a frizzy bun and rough, calloused hands. Her face completely blank, she had a cheesecloth bag in one hand and an armful of clothes in the other.

The woman ordered them all undress; she took Myrcella’s gown and her signet ring, Rosa and Joy’s lion necklaces, and Ellyn’s iron pendant. They were all shivering in their smallclothes when she gave them their new clothes. A nightgown of tan wool for Rosamund, whose glare reminded Myrcella inexplicably of their grandfather. Dirty white linens for Ellyn, which kept the cold away, but smelled like they came from a stablehand. Thick grey roughspun for Joy, who quieted down once she was warm, and for Myrcella, a pilled, dark green dress and a greyish-brown shawl. The shawl was an interesting gesture, a show of more interest in her well being than in that of the others. She wrapped it tight around her shoulders. She and Ellyn could use it for a blanket that evening, she decided, and tomorrow, Rosa and Joy could have it.

The woman took their chamber pot and exited the room. She dropped the cheesecloth bag unceremoniously on the floor, returning a minute later with the pot, now empty. She plopped it down where it had been and left without another word, ignoring the “thank you” Myrcella forced from her mouth.

The bag had their breakfast inside - a piece of brown bread, a block of goat cheese, some dried apples and four small sausages. They each took one sausage, but there was no knife for the cheese, and they had to tear it apart with their hands. Myrcella wanted to take half the dried apples, store them away somewhere they could be saved for later, but she hadn’t a clue where to put them. All they had was two cots, a bucket of water, a chamber pot and a barred window. Should she just hold them in her hand?

Eventually, hunger won out over practicality, and Myrcella let herself and her cellmates wolf down their food without concern for when they’d be fed again. It seemed silly, to put so much contemplation into saving half a handful of dried apples, and feel so bad about allowing them to be eaten. If it came down to that, they wouldn’t save them from starving. Their lives belonged to their captors.

The day passed torturously, inexplicably slowly. She had Ellyn put her hair in a single plait, then did the same for her, Rosamund and Joy. It made them look and feel more put together, but only took up about twenty minutes. The unresponsive stupor Rosamund had sunk into cleared up; she listened to Joy talk about a boy she knew back in the westerlands, making occasional, quiet comments. Ellyn was pacing again, and Myrcella almost joined her, but her whole body was sore from laying so close to the floor all night. A constant, dull headache was beating on her temples, and the food only made her more aware of how hungry she was. Myrcella was truly exhausted, but sitting against the hard wall or laying down on her side just made the pain worse.

With nothing else to do, she lay flat on her back on the pallet, clutching her shawl everytime the wind blew too hard. Around what she assumed was midday, Ellyn woke her up to make sure she was still alright; she was writhing around in her sleep, and her breathing sounded wet and congested. She assured her she was fine before falling into a cloudy daze, not quite asleep but not awake either. At one point, she was jolted up by the crashing of thunder outside - the rain had picked up again, the stupid fucking rain. It was winter by now, it should all be snow, but gods forbid her life be a little bit easier. When she next woke up, it was because Joy was shaking her. The sky through the window was pitch black, and the maid was back, carrying a tray of bowls. It was soup - pork soup, with onions, carrots and celery. Joy looked ready to kiss her.

The next day, Myrcella developed a cough.

She had been sick before; a fever when she was five and then again when she was ten and two. Back then, her mother had her brought to one of the finer guest chambers in the Red Keep, to keep her from getting her brothers sick. The maester wiped the sweat from her brow with cold cloths, had her drink beef broth for every meal and ginger tea along with it. He even arranged for a serving girl to stay with her in the room, and rub her joints with birch oil when they started to ache.

Myrcella couldn’t believe she had ever been that comfortable. Everytime she wanted to drink, she had to hold the ladle five inches above her mouth to keep the others from contracting whatever she had. The minor headache she’d found so debilitating yesterday had grown fiercely; every movement made her brain swirl around in her skull. The problem of the cold was solved; she had to shed her shawl and roll up her sleeves, she was so disgustingly hot. She wasn’t hungry anymore, either; in fact, the thought of eating revolted her. Myrcella couldn’t stop shivering, so hard her teeth clacked together. And the _cough_.  Every time she coughed, the full expanse of her chest exploded into agony, a pain which lingered in her throat even after the bout passed.

When her hacking became so powerful it kept the others awake at night, she told Rosa and Joy to drag their pallet to the other end of the room, as far from her as they could get it. Ellyn took to sleeping with her head on the corner of the other pallet. She let Myrcella have her slippers and advised her to sleep wrapped in her shawl, even when she felt like she was drowning in her own sweat. The day passed in a haze of chest pain and lukewarm bucket water, coughing and ragged denials of breakfast and dinner.

That same day, a different woman came into the cell just after supper. She was far younger than the last, with brownish yellow hair, a short neck and pimples all over her face. Behind her to her right stood the guard, his eyes narrowed and his hand resting on his sheathed sword. At the sight of him, Myrcella drew in a sharp breath; beneath the lowlight of the cell, the guardsman looked so much like her father, with his dark beard and huge hands and round, protruding gut. She almost thought she was dreaming, resurrecting King Robert in her sleep as she used to just after he died. It wasn’t until he ordered them all to get up and follow him that she realized who he wasn’t.

Ellyn swore up and down to Joy - who was terrified, coming up on tears again - that they had no reason to harm any of them, they were young and highborn and worth more alive than dead. Rosamund kept on tripping over her feet; she had barely stood up at all since they’d arrived, and walking was hard for her. Myrcella, the head of their short procession, put her elbow out and let Rosa hold herself up by it. The woman shot them a suspicious look, but didn’t do anything.

She walked them up out of the dungeons and into the main floor of the castle. Every person they passed by - cooks, men in armor, maids and camp followers - stared at them unabashedly, some of them glowering, some of them just curious. Faintly, Myrcella heard her mother’s name, whispered by someone behind her. A pang of suppressed misery hit her at the utterance, but she didn’t look to see who had spoken.

The woman led them through the servants quarters, past the beds, and into a room. The guard stopped outside, shutting the door behind them.

Joy let out a sigh of relief when she saw where they were - it was a washroom. Two wooden bathtubs sat in the center of the room, along with brushes and a lump of soap. The woman sat down in a chair next to the door and told them all to undress.

“Undress.” Rosa had muttered, her voice rough from disuse. “That’s all they ever have to say to us.”

Joy and Myrcella took the first turn in the baths as Ellyn and Rosa stood nearby, waiting for them to be done. The water was ice cold; Myrcella shed her clothes and sunk in without hesitation. She submerged herself to the neck, cupping her hands and dousing her face and head. A week of dirt and straw and sweat faded into the water, and the cold reduced the howling pain in her head to a more bearable proportion. She unbraided her hair, lathering it with soap and rubbing it clean. Myrcella didn’t always do this on her own; Septa Eglantine used to brush her hair out when she was little, and her mother sometimes sent her maid away and did her braids herself.

But she couldn’t conjure up those memories, not here. Mother always smelled of lavender from her perfume and metal from the adornments on her dress and her jewelry. And Eglantine, she had strong, thin fingers, and smooth skin that felt good on her scalp. Everything was all wrong here. The cold water made her joints hurt much worse than they had before, and the air smelled of dust and pine needles. There was a tall, thin window to her left, and it let in more light than they’d seen in days. Starry, dark blue sky was visible outside, and the black silhouettes of spruce trees, swaying in the wind.

Where in the Westerlands even were they? They’d barely been past Silverhill when they were kidnapped, and the ride in that awful cart took up only a night. The only other castle they could be in was Cornfield, but that probably would have taken a much longer ride. There were rumors in the Red Keep, she recalled, that Lord Serrett was dead, that his seat had been taken by the Starks and his son was a captive. She hadn’t paid too much attention at the time - there were rumors about everything in the Red Keep. This was the price of her negligence; she should’ve listened more closely, or at least asked someone about the state of the Westerlands before they travelled through it.

After they finished, Ellyn decided to share the tub with Rosa; getting in the water after Myrcella would doubtlessly make her sick too. She stood next to Joy, drying herself with a towel as they waited for the others to be done. But the wind blew, and it sent Myrcella into another coughing fit. For three whole minutes, she was hunched over, hacking her stomach out of her mouth. In her convulsions, she couldn’t keep the towel wrapped around herself, only hold it pressed between her arm and her chest. Joy hovered behind her, unsure of what to do; she asked, over and over, if she could breath, but Myrcella couldn’t do more than groan between her coughs. The woman - sitting by the door like a piece of furniture - stared at her, as if she was surprised she possessed the capacity to be ill. When it was over, Ellyn was peering up at her from the bath, looking forlorn. Rosamund just looked tired.

On the walk back, Myrcella held herself on Rosa’s arm. She stared at the floor and listened to nothing but the blood rushing in her ears.

After that, she slept for three days straight.

 _It will help,_ she thought to herself during one of the two minute stretches she rose to drink and use the chamber pot and cough her lungs black. It was a deep, immovable sleep, the sort where you drifted off at midday and woke up in the dead of night. If only it could be dreamless, but no, Myrcella dreamt. She dreamt of King Robert arguing furiously with the bearded guardsmen, her father’s face red with rage and his veins popping out of his neck. She dreamt of sitting alone in a rabbit hole, surrounded by pink dahlias, a distinct awareness in the back of her mind that she was hiding from something. She dreamt of living in an abandoned, dilapidated palace, surrounded by wolves who snarled, but didn’t bite. And she dreamt of walking through the cranberry bogs with Joffrey, hand in hand like they did when they were little, except Joffrey was in his black silks and Myrcella her pink velvet robe, the one she burned in the hearth just before her seven and tenth name day-

At first, her cellmates let her sleep. The side of the cell farthest from the window became her domain and hers only, the others avoiding her like the plague she probably had. But after the first two days, Ellyn woke her up. Not just a tap on the shoulder; she made her sit up on the pallet, put her hair back in a braid and brought her some water and her supper. It took her almost an hour to eat all her soup, and Ellyn did make her eat all of it. She wanted to hug her after she finished, but they didn’t need anymore infectees.

After those three days, she started staying awake in the morning, and by the end of their first week in captivity she could walk around again. It was nice to stretch her legs, but they didn’t exactly have anything to do. Joy finally stopped crying for good; she found solace in talking about anything and everything, long, sprawling stories about foreign kings and quaint little anecdotes from the fishwives of Lannisport. When she wasn’t speaking, she asked Rosa to get up and practice dancing with her, humming a wedding march as they did so. Rosamund was doing alright, considering; she listened to Joy talk, danced when she asked her to dance and answered when she was asked questions. The only problem was, even after they all got used to the scratchy straw cots, Rosa couldn’t seem to fall asleep. Myrcella would wake in the middle of the night and find her sitting upright, whispering to herself every so often and wringing her hands together. Heavy grey bags swallowed up her cheeks, and her sage green eyes became tinged with red. Joy told her she’d sleep when she was exhausted, and she was right. Every few days, Rosa would sit awake in the morning and be dead asleep by noon.

Ellyn did everything in her power to keep herself busy; pacing around the cell, cracking her knuckles, makes statues with pieces of straw and doing random equations on her fingers. Every so often, her hand would drift up to her neckline to grasp her necklace, only to realize it wasn’t there. Myrcella was nearly thankful her illness lingered as it did. She’d have been bored half to death if she had the energy to do anything consequential.

The guard brought a maester into the cell to look at her a full two weeks after she first started coughing. He was just about the friendliest person they’d met since being taken; he spoke softly, calling her “Your Grace” and her cellmates “My Lady.” The old man gave her a cup of hot water mixed with slippery elm, which probably would have felt very good a fortnight ago, and bid the guard to have her clothes & pallet washed. The guard never actually did, but it felt good to be considered.

The maester, with his iron grey hair and carefully mixed remedies, reminds her inexplicably of Qarl. She wondered as she tried to fall asleep at night if he was still taking care of her flowers, or if he wasn’t allowed to anymore now that she was gone. She wondered if anyone told him what had become of her, or if he was just left in the dark. Hells, did _anyone_ even know what had become of them? They were slated to arrive at Crakehall long ago, the capital must have gotten wind of it by now, even if the Starks haven’t sent a ransom.

Was her mother scared? Could she fall asleep at night? People told horrific stories about Robb Stark, what did she think was happening to her? Tommen always hated it when their parents got upset, it made him feel scared and helpless. He would come to sit with her on her bed sometimes, when they were going at it. There was no one to sit with him, now.

 _Sansa is fond of Tommen,_ Myrcella told herself, _in her own, cautious way, but it’s fondness just the same. She’ll sit with him in my absence, of course she will._

They were taken to the washroom once a week, and that became Myrcella’s measurement of time. All in all, it took her close to a month to recover, and even then she moved sluggishly. That could be credited to their imprisonment, according to Joy; they had no reason to move around, and nowhere to go besides, and it was making them all slow.  
  
That was how she found herself where she was that evening, lying on her side on the straw pallet, fiddling with a dried apple slice. She’d saved it on a whim that morning after breakfast, and was tearing a little piece off every few seconds with her teeth. Ellyn was half asleep on Rosa’s shoulder, and Joy was running her fingers through her hair, trying to get the knots out. They had reached the point in the day where hunger kept them all paralyzed, where all they really wanted to do was wait for food to be brought to them. Faintly, Myrcella heard footsteps from the hallway.

Ellyn’s head perked up. She kept her eyes on the door, waiting for a few seconds, but it didn’t open.

“Is that dinner?” She asked in a drowsy voice.

“Mm-mm.” Myrcella hummed. They were bootsteps, and the maid wore slippers.

“The guards must be changing shifts.” Said Joy. She gave up on her hair, sweeping the tangled locks behind her shoulders and smoothing it down with her palm.

Ellyn shot her an odd look. “No they’re not.”

Joy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They changed shifts earlier. I heard the bearded man greeting that other fellow.”

Myrcella popped the dried apple in her mouth, grinding it between her teeth. It was more sour than sweet, and some of the flavor had rubbed off in her hand. She rolled over onto her other side, her nose a few inches from the stone bricks. A torch crackled above her head, and a cinder floated down to burn out on her hand.

“Well why isn’t...” Ellyn trailed off. The hinges of the heavy iron bar behind the door creaked, and it swung open.

Myrcella didn’t turn to see who it was. She must’ve been wrong about the maid, it must’ve been dinner, or maybe the pimply woman who took them to bathe.

It was only when the torch crackled again that she realized how quiet it had become. She strained her neck to look over at the other girls; Ellyn’s face had lost all color, and Rosamund had on a vile expression, her nostrils flared and her lips pressed together in an uneven line. From the other side of the room, she could hear Joy whimper.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, getting up onto one arm. She hadn’t heard the door shut yet.

Ellyn glanced at her, her chest rising and falling, before turning her attention back to the cell door.

Myrcella turned over.

It had been six years now since she’d seen Robb Stark. He was always a boy when she pictured him - six and ten, with a fuzzy adolescent chin and dark, river blue eyes. He had smelled good, she remembered, like mahogany wood and cold air. The Stark boys spent a lot of time outside, much more than most of the noblemen at court did, and the scent of it followed them around. Direwolf hair stuck to his wools, and his arm was strong when she held it.

Robb wasn’t a boy anymore. He had always been taller than her, but he seemed near a giant from this angle, his figure blocking the light from the hallway. He had a beard now - gods, how she hated men with beards - though it was thin and shaved close to his face. There were parts of him that, now that he was older, seemed so much more like Sansa; the curve at the tip of his nose, the arch of his lips, the shine of his hair. His reddish-brown curls were as she remembered them, but his shoulders were broader, or maybe it was just the pelt circling them. He wore the heavy, cross strapped northern cloaks she was familiar with, but he was armored in gorget, pauldron and vambrace, more protection than she’d ever seen him in.

She didn’t know what she was expecting to see, but it wasn’t this.

“My Lord?” Myrcella said hastily, the first words that came into her mind. She knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment she said it.

“Your Grace.” Robb corrected her, not missing a beat. His voice had deepened exponentially, unconnected to the boy she’d once knew. “Call me Your Grace.”

_We never really knew each other, though._

His armor clinked as he strode into the cell. The guard shut the door behind him, but she didn’t hear the bar go down. Ellyn shrunk her legs back as he passed her, her eyes trailing his every movement. From the other side of the room, she could hear Joy take in a quick breath.

Myrcella rose immediately, straightening herself to her full height. She couldn’t imagine how she looked - they hadn’t bathed in four days, her hair was undone, and it’d been an obscene amount of time since she’d changed clothes.

Robb stopped two whole paces in front of her, scrutinizing her with unfamiliar intensity.

“Can I be of service?” Myrcella asked, holding her shawl close. “We’re not dressed to receive you.” Internally, she scolded herself for her tone; a defiant spirit would only get her killed, and she would have to quell it.

Rosamund hissed something under her breath, her lips barely moving. Ellyn turned to her with a horrified look, but she wasn’t cowed - she was glaring up at Robb from beneath him, her eyes alight with hate.

 _She’ll get us all killed, if she loses her temper._ The thought made Myrcella want to laugh; Rosa had had no temper to speak of before they were brought here. _How much blame does she lay at Robb Stark’s feet for the murder of her little brothers? Is she looking to put out one of his eyes, too?_

Robb gave a huff, having noticed the pointed absence of honorific.

“Prisoners should take more heed when addressing their gaolers.” He said to them both. “Your brother would have your head off for speaking to him like that.”

“My brother has had people’s heads off for less.” It could be taken as a snipe, she supposed, but she doubted she would die for it. Still, she felt a touch a guilt, the image of Ned Stark being dragged from the throne room appearing unbidden in her mind.

Robb’s eyes darkened. They were silent for a second, a gust of wind blowing through the walls and tussling her hair.

 _I owe this man nothing. He has me locked in a rain sodden cell, coughing myself to death in filthy clothes._ It was him that was keeping them here, she thought, not the guardsman or the maid. A cold hand squeezed her heart. _I owe him less than nothing._

“Have we done something wrong?” Myrcella asked. “We’ve been here twenty seven days. Nobody has come to see us before now.”

“I’m not here to execute you.” Robb said plainly. His eyes flickered to Joy as she gave a shaky sigh.

Myrcella ground the fabric of her shawl between her fingers. “It’s dishonorable. Captive Knights have a right to know who is holding them.”

“You aren’t knights.”

“No, we’re not.” She agreed. She couldn’t help herself; “How do you justify the presence of that great behemoth parked outside our door?”

“Jarmen has treated you with decency.” Robb said sternly, like Septa Eglantine scolding her for slouching. “Your caretaker told me as such."

Myrcella narrowed her eyes. “Which one is the caretaker?” She was beginning to loathe herself for her compliance. “The one who feeds us twice a day or the one who takes us to bathe once a week?” She could still taste the apple in the back of her mouth, sour and unpleasant.

Robb’s lip twitched downward. “You’re as courteous as your father.”

“Wh-” Myrcella was lost. Robb hadn’t seen her father since their visit six years ago, and they hadn’t been at loggerheads...

Her stomach sank.

“Ahh.” She said, nodding her head slowly and raising her eyebrows on her head. “You saw him touching her, then.” Robb looked confused and she _relished_ it, even as a lump began to form in her throat. “My royal father was feeling up Lady Catelyn like a two-copper whore when your family greeted us outside Winterfell.”

“I loved him.” She added, because she felt like she had to, voice as sharp as a hatchet. “But he did have his little sins. Even so, you shouldn’t disparage your namesake, m’lord. He was a _king_ , after all”

The words tumbled out of her mouth, icily polite. Her eyes stung with heat; she could feel herself coming up on tears. _I owe him less than nothing._ She swallowed around the lump, squashing the shame that bloomed in her chest. She’d admired Lady Catelyn so much, once; scorned Joffrey for downtalking her, felt embarrassed when her father’s hands drifted a little when he embraced her. She’d prayed to the Mother before going to sleep at night, and pictured Lady Catelyn’s face, along with Septa Eglantine and her own mother. _It doesn't feel good to belittle her, but I’m their prisoner. Nothing else should feel better._  

He hadn’t exactly been smiling before, but every trace of warmth drained from Robb’s face when she finished speaking. His scowl was horrible to behold, his eyes shaded by his brow bone and his jaw setting.

“Your cousin gored one of my men.” He said, cold and controlled. “That’s why you’re being guarded. She’s only been treated according to her crimes. If you want to be seperate-”

“Don’t you talk to me” Rosamund rasped abruptly, “about _my crimes_.” Her voice broke on the last word, red eyes huge with grief and malevolence. She looked like a monster beneath the torchlight, her hair a matted mess and her skin pale and dirty.

"Rosa.” Ellyn said, clinging to her side as if compelling her to stay seated. “Please.”

Robb’s head didn’t turn, but his eyes drifted down to where she was sitting. Something in his face changed, and his jaw moved as if he meant to speak. He didn't.

“Why did you come here?” Myrcella repeated softly, willing the bitterness out of her voice. “Your grace.”

His expression didn’t shift more than a scintilla, but somehow, Robb looked hurt. Not only hurt, despairing - as if some deep, hidden hope was newly dead and the stench of rot had just now reached his nostrils. Hope for what, she couldn’t say, but she knew the look.

“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see how you were doing?”

Myrcella’s jaw went slack behind her closed lips. She let go of her shawl, her hands falling to her sides. She had no idea how she was supposed to respond; she knew what she would’ve said if he asked about Sansa, if he questioned the identity of her birth father, if he mentioned Joffrey again, but this. This she hadn’t practiced for. It was such a sudden change in the tenure of their conversation, such an open expression of concern…

She didn’t trust it.

“Why.” She breathed. “It's been so long, so long here, and you…”

 _You loathe my family. You didn’t care when I was sick, if you even knew. You didn’t really care about me when we were younger, either, we didn’t know each other at all, it was just my stupid little fancy, no better than Sansa and Joffrey though I’m not sure which of us is which..._ She could think of a million things to say, but no way to say them.  

Before she could gather herself, Robb turned around, leaving the cell as if he’d been waiting to do so the whole time.

“I’ll see you on the morrow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of Robb and Myrcella's conversation was based off of Jaime and Catelyn's conversation in the books, and part from Brienne and Jaime's dialogue in-show (the bit about knights.) Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb reflects, and sees his sister again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, hope you enjoy!

Robb didn’t enjoy admitting it, but sometimes he acted like a fool.

Forethought was the key to success, that had been clear to him for years now, and yet he went down into that cell on a desultory impulse. Joffrey’s sweet little sister had wandered into his thoughts before; he had wondered, once or twice, what had become of her after the war started. But once Myrcella and her companions were taken hostage, there was no need to pay her a visit. He didn’t need to see them to negotiate with them, not while he had more pressing things to do. Ravens flew, letters were exchanged, and three weeks later their encampment was overrun with Lannisters.

Robb drifted over to the window, surveying the grounds. The grey and brown Stark tents surrounded Silverhill like a murky moat, dotted with the occasional orange light from torches and fire pits. The sun hadn’t rose yet, but some men were awake - soldiers on watch duty, camp followers returning to their tents, cooks and smiths preparing for the day’s work. Farther down the horizon, wide red tents stuck out over the green and blue landscape, lined with gold and interspersed with roaring lion flags. There weren’t as many fireplaces there; most of them must still have been sleeping.

 _You could rally a force of men, quickly and quietly._ He knew he wouldn’t do it, but it couldn’t hurt to imagine. _Drive through the Lannister army while it still slumbers, kill the officers, the generals, the lords. They’ll lose all semblance of order without a chain of command, and we can pick them apart like wet parchment._

Robb laid his hands flat on the windowsill, the stone cold through his glove. He squinted, focusing in on each of the individual tents.

_Sansa is in one of those._

He could picture her perfectly in her mind, red hair cascading over her shoulders, blue eyes wide and excited, cheeks pink from the cold. The image of her was comforting, but the question of what she looked like now was not.

Myrcella would’ve known what she looked like now. Myrcella might have told him, too, if he’d given her less reason to think him hostile. He added that to the list of questions he should have asked her, but didn’t, too consumed by perceived injustice and self-pity to think of an apposite question. Everything about her was calculated; her stance, her words, when and how she said them. It made Robb feel all the more dull, standing there in front of her, making it up as he went along.

He’d prepared far more for his summit with her grandfather. Tywin in the flesh had been everything he’d expected; old and angry eyed, taller than half the men in his army and garbed in black steel and crimson velvet. He rode in on a massive white thoroughbred, chin raised defiantly, evening light dancing in the gold decals on his armor. Tywin was an all-consuming presence, as kingly as a lord could ever hope to be. He could feel his gaze without seeing it, smell whatever oil he was wearing from across the room. Tywin had laid out his proposed peace terms to him in way that was measured and clear, as if he doubted Robb would understand a less eloquent speaker. If that had been infuriating, it had been a minor irritation compared to the indignation that came with knowing he must agree to his terms. Robb had won near every battle he’d ever fought, by all means, he should have been leading the peace talks. But with winter less than three months away and a third of the harvest gone to seed, neither of them were in any position to be making the demands characteristic of a wholly victorious nation.

_Tywin twisted the ring on his finger, the only habit of his that could be labeled nervous. “Your last attempt at peace making was made six years past. I’ve seen three wars in my lifetime, and not one of them has carried on quite as long as this one.”_

_“Were you expecting my death to be more timely?”_

_He huffed.“Perhaps not your death. Renly is rotting in the ground. Balon faces discord from within his own ranks, and Stannis can’t last through even a three year winter.”_

_“Of this continent’s warring nations, The Westerlands and the Kingdom in the North have the only chance of surviving the winter. Unless we remain at each other’s throats.”_

“Your Grace?” A voice called from the doorway, jolting him out of his thoughts. It was a servant, a young man he knew as Addam. “Ser Jaime has been moved from his pen. They’re bathing him now.”

“And the girls?”

“They’re fed, washed and dressed. They’re waiting under guard in a tent by the stables.”

Robb gave a small nod, considering it for a second. “Has the Kingslayer been told he’s being ransomed?” He wouldn’t attempt escape again if he knew what was to become of him.

“I think they told him, Your Grace...” He glanced off to the side. “Though I’m not certain he believed them.”

Robb frowned. “How many men are guarding him?”

“Three, Your Grace.”

“Make it five.”

Addam gave a quick bow, turning to leave. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The door fell shut behind him, and Robb returned to the window.

He had mulled over the events of this morning so many times that to do it again seemed more harmful than helpful. It had certainly been helpful last night, when his anxiety over the hostage exchange swallowed up his misery over the path his life was about to be sent down. But his focus was on his sister this morning, on her safety and the grief that would doubtlessly follow if the exchange erupted into bloodshed.

Off in the Lannister encampment, a horn sounded.

_“The North can have its independence, as can the Riverlands.”_

_Robb’s shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch, the only indication of triumph and relief that he allowed himself. Tywin, of course, didn’t allow him a second to enjoy it, carrying on as if he’d said nothing consequential._

_“Your father's bones have already been returned to you, I’m told.”_

_“And his men?”_

_“The corpses of his men were burned immediately after their deaths.” Tywin said, not missing a beat. “There was never anything to return.”_

_"You will maintain the preexisting trade agreement between our nations, and provide writ non aggression against all southern kingdoms, which I will give in turn. Jaime, of course, will be returned to me, along with all other prisoners of war. The North will agree to support us in any future endeavors.”_

_Robb stopped him at that, reassured by the reminder that he was in control. “We’re neighbors, not brothers. I won’t send northmen to die whenever Joffrey kicks a hornets nest.”_

_Tywin raised his eyebrows, head cocking slightly to the side.“I figured you for a tactician._ _  
_ _If your neighbor's house is set ablaze, would you help them quell the fire? Or wait for the flame to spread and consume you as well?”_

_“Wether or not threats to the south pose any threat to the us is subjective.” Robb said, voice brooking no argument.“Northern aid is an option, not a guarantee. We’ll decide if we want to help you or not.”_

_For a moment, Tywin was silent._

_“Fine.” He eventually conceded, somehow imbuing all the hatred in Westeros into one monosyllabic word._

Robb took his cloak from the seat by the table, throwing it over his shoulders and fitting the strap around his chest. Though it was by no means warm, the Westerlands climate was considerably mild, thank the gods; it allowed them to prepare for the harsher conditions that would build on their voyage North. The rivers hadn’t frozen over yet, so the men were fishing, and preserving the catches in salt to be eaten further down the road. Farther north near Pinkmaiden, they had passed herds of bison; the jerky they’d made from them was still being eaten, and the hides made into blankets and cloaks.

If only the smallfolk were more open to them. Fanatical tales of northern mysticism and brutality were well known in the Westerlands, and they followed Robb and his army around like a foul smell. Villagers shut their windows to them, inns closed their doors, and markets were abandoned when they heard of their approach. Last week, two Glover men had tried to patronize a whorehouse in a town close by the castle, and it’s owner had driven them out, shouting and waving a sharpened broom handle. It wasn’t just the stories; Lannister soldiers inflicted quick punishments on those smallfolk who helped invading armies, under instruction by their Lord. Being unable to buy and sell didn’t detract from the preserving effort too much, but it certainly would’ve helped. For the first time, Robb resented his reputation.

A gust of wind blew outside, rustling the leaves. It was a pleasant sound, one he wouldn’t hear again when they returned to the North. The leaves lingered on the trees here, dry shades of orange, red, brown and green. He could almost have found the Westerlands pretty, if he were here for a reason besides war; they had passed droves of bullocks, blueberry orchards bearing fat, sweet fruit and stony rivers running with bass and frigid water. There was a lake not far from the castle with a still, reflective surface, shielded by tall trees with broad, orange leaves.

“Your Grace?”

Robb turned to face the servant, returned from his task. “Yes?”

“They’ve added two more men to Ser Jaime’s guard retinue. They’ll be finished washing him soon, and will move him to the tent with the girls.”

Robb bit his inner lip. The Kingslayer was at his most dangerous when he was being moved; he’d attempted escape thrice, each time when they had him walking. He would see him down to the stables, he decided; his mind wouldn’t be at ease unless he oversaw it himself.  

His sword was laid down on the table, sheathed and freshly sharpened. He slid it through the holster on his belt.

“Take me to where they’re keeping him.”

 _Kingslayer_. Robb’s mother had forbade him from calling him that before their visit. It felt like a lifetime ago the royal family had arrived at Winterfell. It was the last time he’d looked at Myrcella; the memory of her was vague and undetailed, overshadowed by the grief Bran’s fall brought on. He did remember some, sparse parts of that feast, though. The harp music, the drunken laughter, the strongwine and the boar meat. King Robert had loved the boar ribs, he recalled, and had eaten four servings.

How ironic.

The sigil of House Serrett was a peacock over a cream field. It would imply they were wealthy, but no; Silverhill was a far smaller castle than Winterfell, and less elaborately decorated as well. The only flags were in the main hall, and the few tapestries were ancient and moth eaten. The candle holders were rusty, as were the door hinges. Some of the servants bowed as he passed, some just averted their eyes. They were assimilating to their new rulership well enough; they treated him and his with the appropriate respect, but some still called him “My Lord.” One of the older ones, defiant and loyal to his dead master, hadn’t been doing it by accident. Lord Bolton, back when he was still alive, had suggested he tear the man’s tongue out. Robb had dismissed him instead.

Addam led him down to a door in the back of the dungeons, barred and guarded by a massive bald man with a scar over his nose. This was where the prisoners bathed, usually in one large group, but the Kingslayer was alone this morning.

Someone knocked on the door from inside. The bald man lifted the bar. Robb heard a muffled laugh from within the room, and gripped the hilt of his sword.

Jaime didn’t laugh as much as he used to. Captivity had left him gaunt, the fat melted away from his frame, leaving him lean and bony. His hair, dripping wet, had grown down to his back, and his face was obscured by a golden beard as thick as a lion’s mane. His guards only bathed him when the smell of him became too strong to bear, and his walk was stiff and strained from so much time spent sitting down. Yet somehow, he didn’t seem weak - with his sharp smile and thin build, he looked like some obscure, malicious god.

“Lord Stark.” The Kingslayer said, shackled in irons large enough for an ox. He was surrounded on all sides by soldiers, two in front of him and two behind him. They had fought under the banners of House Glover, Mormont, Manderly and Bolton; Robb hadn’t allowed any Karstark men near Jaime or any of his female relatives, not since that debacle with their lord.

“You’re bidding me farewell?” He smiled, white teeth flashing through his beard. “I always knew you were fond of me.” The triumph in his face, the feeling of _I won, I won, I won and I know I did,_ made him want to strike him.

The Glover man did it for him. He slammed his foot into the Kingslayer’s shin, and there must have been a bruise there, because he cried out, his knees buckling. It took him a while to regain his balance, the display truly pitiful, but when he rose back up to look Robb in the eye, he didn’t seem disheartened. Surprise flickered over the captive’s face; he had goaded Robb and received no verbal response, not even a scoff.

The moment didn’t last. The bald man stepped between Robb and Jaime, closing the gap between the two frontal guards. One of them passed him a chain, the leash of the Kingslayer’s shackles, which he wrapped twice around his hand.

 _The man who is to be my father in law._ Robb thought abruptly, accompanied by a surge of anger so strong it threatened to blind him.

_“You will have none of the highborn hostages you requested.” Tywin said, and Robb could almost laugh that he’d denied him, that he’d given him such a good excuse to contradict him._

_“Then this is all for naught, Lord Tywin.” He instilled his voice with a note of warning; despite his immense satisfaction, he did, truly, want peace. “A slip of paper is a slip of paper. How do I know your beloved grandson will keep to his word? Historically, he hasn’t.”_

_And Robb was shocked as Tywin did... the closest thing he’d ever seen Tywin do to smiling. He rose a hand for a cupbearer to refill his glass, his pleasure with himself somehow palpable in the gentle curve of his frown._

_“You didn’t let me finish.”_

Myrcella was to be his wife, as soon as they could finish embroidering the maiden’s cloaks, as Tywin put it. It made political sense; to intertwine the families of two neighboring nations, put a steel lock around any future wars. They couldn’t afford to do all this again, not with a monstrous winter on the horizon, unsettling reports from the Night’s Watch and a Targaryen amassing power across the ocean. But still, it tormented him - it felt _wrong._ To capitulate to a murderous, hostile regime went against everything he’d ever found right, even if he’d made peace proposals before.

A bad taste swimming around in his mouth, Robb allowed Addam to leave. He led the Kingslayer and his five guardsmen through the dungeons, to a door in the back of the barracks which led outside the castle. It was a security liability, Robb thought, but Silverhill had been a relatively peaceful place before the war. Even so, he decided he’d have it sealed after today.

The barracks were entirely empty, as the guards all rose early. They struggled to fit in the narrow path between the beds, the Kingslayer’s gaolers shuffling into straight lines in front and behind him. Robb threw the door open, stepping out into the open air.

The sky was cloudless, only occupied by the last dim likeness of the moon. The long period of rain had let up, but it still smelled of wet earth, and the lingering moisture made the cold harder to ignore. The clink of the Kingslayer’s chains punctuated the morning silence, that, and the occasional blow of the wind, shaking the frames of the surrounding tents. There was a reason he’d agreed to make the trade so early in the morning - leading the Lannisters to ransom through a jeering crowd of soldiers would make the situation harder to control.

The closest tent to the stables had been cleared out for it’s purpose today. He could recite every detail of how the trade would go today; he had overseen the planning of all of it.

Behind him, Jaime whispered something beneath his breath as they came up on the tent.

Robb wasn’t sure how to interpret that.

Dacey stood in front of the tent, armed and armored like she was about to go to battle. Inside, Myrcella was sat down on a bench beside her cousins and the Banefort girl. Her hair was washed and combed, her hands laid flat in her lap. They had dressed her more fittingly, in a white linen dress with loose sleeves and a pale tan overdress knitted together at the bodice. She looked like she could be any lowborn girl, a milkmaid or a farmer’s daughter, if it weren’t for her distinctly highborn beauty. The Banefort girl was holding her hand, tracing the knuckles with her fingertips. Joy Hill, Tywin’s bastard niece, was sitting beside her cousin Rosamund, dressed in a thin blue dress and boots that were too big for her. They hadn’t found a way to make Rosamund look put together - her eyes were red and baggy and her hair was wet string, tied tight behind her head in a common style. And yet, there was something different about her. She seemed more aware, more awake, and had an arm hooked protectively around Joy’s waist.

Myrcella’s head turned up when she saw him. She stiffened as Robb approached her, her shoulders tensing. Behind him, the guards stopped short in front of the tent, not allowing Jaime to get any closer. For a second she looked like she meant to say something to him, but they were interrupted.

“Myrcella.” The Kingslayer breathed.

she rose from her spot in one swift, fluid motion, her hand sliding out of the Banefort girl’s grasp. Her lower lip trembled, her eyes widening.

“Uncle?” She sounded the way she had in Winterfell, all those years ago, when they were both young.

“Stay seated, if you would.” Dacey said calmly. Myrcella ignored her, edging closer to Robb, or rather to her uncle. She lifted a hand and hovered it over his upper arm, stepping to the side to see her uncle from between his escorts.

“Uncle Jaime?” She repeated, her voice so little.

Her touch was like a scourge, jolting somehow even though Robb barely felt it. Rosamund was shifting in her seat for a second, almost like she was going to get up, but her grip on Joy’s shoulder was iron and her eyes kept darting to Dacey’s sword. The Banefort girl was frozen in place, and Joy Hill was staring outside the tent flap, her face drawn in shock as if she had just heard the moan of a ghost.

“Rise.” He told the three girls, his chest tight all of a sudden. “Follow behind Lady Mormont.”

Robb didn’t wait to see if they complied, turning to face the Kingslayer, his expression carefully blank.

His hand found it’s way to the ball Myrcella’s shoulder, his grip firm, but not tight. He began to walk, nodding at the leading guard, indicating them to follow.

Myrcella had shot him some sort of look the moment he laid hand on her, and Robb had resolutely ignored it. Once they started moving again, though - him walking ahead with her in his grasp, the Kingslayer, his escort, and the three girls lined up like ducklings behind Dacey Mormont - his eyes flitted to her, and she took her chance to speak.

“It’s been six years since I’ve seen him, Your Grace.” Her voice was low and offended. “I just wanted to say hello.”

“You can speak again when you’re released.” Robb said quickly. No one had told her of their arrangement, yet - the alliance would only be finalized once they were back in Lannister custody, and then, Tywin had said he would explain it to her himself.

 _And yet._ Robb thought. _And yet._ Didn’t she have a right to know what was going to become of her? His life wouldn’t really change, beyond being bound to a killer’s bastard until one of them died. It was her who was leaving home to live with him in Winterfell; sure, she was civil enough now, but who knew how her temperament would change once she realized she was to become his wife. Good gods, who knew what she’d do? Her position was as much an insertion into the Northern regency as it was a binding of two bordering nations. His decisions overruled hers as the king, of course, but what she was liable to do, for her loyalties to her family.

Robb was loathe to think he was showing weakness in front of such people as these, but he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at her every few seconds. Jaime’s face was sharp as an axe, his jaw cut from stone and his cheekbones high up on his face. His eyes were a dramatic shade of green, almost feverish in their brightness, and his hair was shining gold through it’s filthy state. Myrcella’s features were soft - her nose didn’t come to the point Jaime’s did and her jaw was ovular. She had eyes the color of pine needles and her hair was gold, though not as bright as the Kingslayers. They had some similarities; the long legs, the long lashes, the razor sharp collarbone, but really, she looked more like his niece than his daughter. Their succession had never relied on Joffrey being illegitimate the same way Stannis and Renly’s had, but he’d still believed it. What sort of children would Myrcella produce, if she even could get pregnant, what with her blood? Did wedding her mean he had to change his opinion on her parentage, not just publicly but within his own mind?

He wondered if she could perceive his uncertainty. Myrcella kept her eyes fixed on the path, her discomfort apparent in the way she scanned every tent they passed by. The sun was about to rise, setting the sky in a deep cobalt blue.

The wind blew, and a lock of gold hair fluttered against Robb’s chin.

Robb had left Grey Wind with Nymeria, the two wolves tussling up in Arya’s rooms in Silverhill. They had occupied the castle, but by the terms of the armistice, they would have to return it to the new Lord Serrett; a terrified ten and three year old who’s father the Greatjon killed in combat. They’d locked him in his chamber, first, before he tried to climb out a window. Then they’d put him in the dungeons.

Why had Rosamund done what she’d done to that man’s eyes? She was the sister of those poor squires,  Robb was aware, but she rattled the men to the bone and lost them any chance of accommodations suiting their position. She could’ve saved them all a lot of discomfort if she hadn’t resisted, or at least, had done so less brutally. One of their guards mentioned Myrcella had been sick for a time; a bad cough, a lack of appetite.

 _I should’ve paid closer attention to her._ They were never going to wed on positive terms, but neglecting her in confinement was only going to make it worse.

Robb has been struck by her, last night; still reeling from the his new marriage arrangements, but she had startled him, for half a moment, into forgetting. She looked so simple, so purely herself, a sharp contrast to the richly coiffed little girl he’d met at Winterfell. All that gold hair framing her face, dark and glimmering under the torchlight, deep green eyes alight. He had been afraid he would go down there and find that she had grown into the spitting image of her mother, that he’d be looking Cersei in the face for the rest of his life, but no. Her lips were pink and damp, her breath clouding the air. It had smelled of rain and woodsmoke, of stones, of fear. Looking at her now, he could still see it, the ever present sense of terror behind her hardened features. _We’re all strangers to them. Strangers who might kill them at the drop of a hat._

Robb swallowed. _Is that just how she views me and mine, or has she seen it before? Seen it in Joffrey?_

_How does he treat his prisoners? Even the young girls?_

He strengthened his grip on Myrcella’s shoulder, and walked on.

There was a small hillock just beyond the Stark encampment, the Lannister tents less than a furlong away. A procession of men and women stood at the top, facing the open field. His mother stood at the front of them all, in a high necked, dark grey gown and long blue cloak. He had heard her weeping in her room last night, just after he’d gone to see Myrcella. Her eyes were trained on the Lannister camp - she barely even looked to see him approach. Arya was close by her, wearing her boiled leather and armguards, Needle hanging from her belt. She’d not brought her wolf as she promised she wouldn’t. Ser Rodrik stood beside them, arms crossed, his face hard and tense. The Greatjon’s enormous stature cast a long, wide shadow, nearly covering Hareth Tallhart behind him. He was the brother of Arrana Tallhart - the late Lord Bolton’s late first wife. As such, he seemed the most appropriate choice to marry Roose’s widow Walda after her husband fell in battle. The Bolton lands and armies were in need of leadership, but the line wasn’t extinguished; Roose had left the Frey girl pregnant, and three years ago she’d given birth to twins, a boy and girl she’d elected to call Robb and Roslin.  

Robb had smiled when she told him that, though it gave him no joy. It should have - he was his first namesake, the quiet, pale eyed baby. But hearing the word ‘Roslin’ always had a way of burning him out. Walda had sent the boy to the Dreadfort in the care of one of her sisters, citing that it was safer there, but she kept the girl with her and the Northern army. Little Roslin Bolton tottered around Silverhill, her mother and her nurses calling out for her, oblivious to the pain they were causing their king just by uttering his dead queen’s name.

His mother and sister turned to face him as Robb strode up the hill, Myrcella under his hand. His mother’s face slackened when she saw Myrcella. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all. Arya barely spared her a glance, focusing her attention on Robb, her face creased with worry. Her weight pressed against him when she stumbled on a rock, bracing herself on his side. The group parted to let them through, and Robb settled in between his mother and sister.

The Kingslayer and his guards bypassed the group, stopping in front of them on the slope of the hill. One of the men forced him to his knees, eliciting from him a pained grunt. Dacey took the girls up the same way, having them stop next to the Kingslayer. The Banefort girl shrunk herself, wrapping her arms around her midsection. Joy stood behind her cousin, holding her elbow. Rosamund was the only one who openly faced the field, looking out into the Lannister camp with a suspicious look in her eye.

“Would you let me go to them?” Myrcella asked him out of the blue. “Just to stand with them, that’s all.”

“What would be the point?” Robb asked her. “You’re all leaving together.”

Myrcella met eyes with him, and hers were stony. “The point.” She whispered to herself.

Sunrise wasn’t a specific enough time for a trade such as this. They settled into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the Kingslayer’s wet breathing. The Lannister flags flapped idly, with no sight of movement from within the camp. Eventually, a few men -  no more than tiny shapes from this far away - began to float in and out of the tents, but there was no sign of Tywin nor his hostage. The sky grew brighter, the moon disappeared, and when Robb could feel the heat of the sun on his face through the cold hiemal air, his patience began to splinter.  

“They should be here by now.” Arya said darkly. “Why aren’t they here by now?” A lock of hair had escaped the braids keeping it from her face.

His mother extended a hand, and curled it behind her ear. “They will come.”

“Not as if Lord Tywin has a choice.” Ser Rodrik finished.

Arya didn’t seem convinced, silver eyes flashing, but she said nothing else.

“Even so.” Hareth chimed in. “If they aren’t here in ten minutes, we should send an envoy.”

“And have them return his head?” The Greatjon said. “If they aren’t here in ten minutes, we gather our forces. Ready ourselves for their attack.”

“There are fifteen archers ready along the southron edge.” Said Catelyn. “And runners, to alert the camp if this is a trick. We’ll be ready for them if they’re trying to surprise us.”

In his peripheral vision, Robb noticed Rosamund Lannister, staring at his mother with dull, tired hate. Joy, clinging tightly to her, simply looked scared, while the Banefort girl was chewing her lip like it was salt beef. The Kingslayer hadn’t moved in quite a while, though his chest heaved as if every breath was a struggle. Myrcella was growing restless, fidgeting under his grip every so often. There was something terribly upsetting about how trapped she looked, making his heart twist in a way that was uncomfortably concerned. He put his hand on her other shoulder, as if he meant to hold her closer, but made no move to draw her in. Her head turned to him for half a second, before she returned her gaze to her cousins.

The squaw of a red-tailed hawk broke through the air, streaking through the sky out of one of the Lannister tents. Robb couldn’t tell if it had a scroll attached to it, but he couldn’t help but wonder.

 _Mother used to go hawking with the girls,_ Robb recalled. _They were training a red tailed hawk themselves._

Rosamund Lannister gasped, and, as abrupt as an earth shattering clap of thunder, Robb could hear hooves.

From down the center of the Lannister camp came the ruthless drum of hooves from a massive horse. In the distance, a white steed came bounding into the field, a shape of black iron and gold atop it. Accompanied by a guard of four draft horses, Robb could barely, _barely_ make out a second rider, sitting behind Tywin, gripping his sides.

Somehow, the world seemed quieter, more still. To his side, Robb could hear his mother give a sob.

The horses came to a stop within walking distance of them, Tywin dismounting with businesslike ease. The woman behind him slid off herself, gripping the saddle to keep from falling.

Sansa looked nothing like he remembered her. Absolutely nothing. Her hair was tied away from her face, two straight locks swept over each shoulder, a pointedly southron style. She had grown half a foot taller, her cheekbones higher, her eyes a far sharper shade of blue. A silver necklace hung from her neck, bangles of a similar shape dangling from her ears. She was garbed in a mauve gown embroidered with lillies. Robb could smell her perfume from fifteen feet away. Her face was a porcelain mask, even as tears dripped freely from her eyes.

Robb’s hand dropped off Myrcella’s shoulder. “Go.” He told her, not even bothering to hide the emotion in his voice. He gestured to the Kingslayer’s guards, to Dacey. “Go.”

The girls didn’t bother waiting for her to lead them, Joy Hill rushing forward to her uncle’s horse. Myrcella followed behind her at a much slower pace, the Banefort girl gravitating towards her until they were side by side. She looked back over her shoulder to make sure Rosamund was following her; she was.

Sansa walked like a wooden machine, her mouth half open, her hands fisting into her dress. Her throat convulsed as she swallowed, eyes trained on Robb and Arya and their mother all at once.

“Oh.” Robb could hear Catelyn say. He flashed a wide grin at her, his face sticking that way. His eyes stung powerfully, painfully.

Sansa’s hand brushed against Myrcella’s as they crossed paths, Myrcella grasping at her for a moment before moving on. Sansa’s fingers moved minutely as if she meant to reciprocate, but they were apart as soon as it happened.

“Sansa!”

Robb didn’t have time to see Arya move, but he had time to see Sansa smile. It was a glorious revelation, like the sun setting on the end of a brutal, frigid blizzard. Sansa smiled for the first time in six years, and crumpled into Arya’s arms.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had the next chapter planned out for a while, so it will probably come quicker. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella receives some unpleasant news, and she and her cousins cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait once again, hope you enjoy!

Myrcella had never missed extravagance so much.

She hated it sometimes, the lavishness of the court, gilded and rotten beneath it all. But pressed up against a month in a dingy stone room, the familiarity of lordly wealth was comforting. She hefted herself up onto her grandfather’s finely made saddle, wrapping her arms around his armored waist and clasping her hands together. It had been eight years since she’d seen him in the flesh, yet he had barely aged, his face having gained no more lines and his hair having grown no whiter. Tywin Lannister looked to where his son was being helped onto the back of a horse. The moment he was settled, Jaime slumped forward over the rider’s shoulder with a faint, pained sigh, his head lolling as if he were half asleep.

Tywin’s eyes betrayed no emotion. “Bring him to Maester Andros.” He commanded, his voice as deep and cold as it had ever been. The rider bounded off back to the camp.

Joy was shuddering with the effort to restrain her jubilance, wiping her leaky eyes every few seconds as she hurried over to one of the riders. A man on a huge, brown and white shire horse grabbed her under the arms like a babe, pulling her onto the saddle behind him. Ellyn had the smallest of tired smiles on her face as she got up on a grey Dornish steed, her lip quirking up higher when she and Myrcella met eyes. Rosamund - taut faced and squinting in the weak sunlight - found her way to a black draft horse, stroking the animal’s neck before allowing herself to be helped up on it’s back.

Once they were all saddled and in place, her grandfather tugged the reins of his horse, urging it to turn. Just before they did, Myrcella took one last look at the Starks, almost disappeared down the other side of the hill. Robb still had Sansa wrapped beneath his cloak, her red hair sticking out from beneath the fur.

Myrcella muttered a quick, quiet prayer to the Father, thanking him. If her grandfather heard her, he didn’t acknowledge it.

Her hair whipped back furiously in the wind. It was cool and sobering, caressing her scalp like the teeth of a comb. The up and down of the horse compelled her to grip Tywin’s armor more tightly. The other girls rode some feet behind them, falling into a line as they entered the Lannister encampment. One or two officers bowed as they passed. Some of the soldiers - awake early, or perhaps they never went to sleep - cheered, the noise loud, but not thunderous. Myrcella tried to smile at them. Her grandfather had no love from the smallfolk, she knew that, but they must’ve made a much more inspiring sight than her Uncle had entering before them.

They were nearly at the center of the camp when Myrcella realized that they were alone now; looking over her shoulder, the other girls had dismounted more than twenty paces behind them, and were rapidly getting smaller as her grandfather urged on his horse.

“Where are we going?” Myrcella asked him.

He didn’t answer, only turned a corner, speeding father away from the edge of the camp. She was quiet for a short time, wondering if he was deliberately ignoring her.

“Did you hear me, my lord?”

Her chin went jolting over her grandfather’s shoulder, her hands clamping down on his midsection in a panic as he brought the horse to a very sudden stop. It took her a second to gather herself, after which, she stepped down from the horse, the tall grass tickling her heels.

Tywin had stopped them in front of a pavilion, red like all the others but taller than the tents surrounding it, with golden tassels hanging from the rims. Myrcella stepped to the side, making room for her grandfather to dismount beside her. He smoothed down the velvet sash across his chest, passing off the reins of his horse to an approaching stablehand.

“You’re a skilled rider, your uncle tells me.” Tywin said, displeased and disinterested all at once. “That would lead one to believe you have an idea how difficult it is to have a conversation while on horseback?”

Myrcella would’ve scoffed, had she been speaking to anyone else. “I don’t find it so difficult.” She said. “My lord.”

Tywin hummed. She remembered noting how often he did that, the last time they saw each other.

“Come.” Her grandfather told her, and tossed aside the flap.

The tent had the air of a guest room on the inside. A bed tossed with grey furs - wolf pelts, how very droll -  sat in the corner, a carved wooden table beside it with a green candle on top, held by an iron holder. A chest sat at the foot of the bed, a full length mirror facing the tent flap. There was a chair and desk on the other side of the tent, with glass goblets, a silver pitcher and covered platter.

Two women stood waiting in the tent. They were both on the older side, though one’s black hair was more noticeably streaked with silver. They were dressed in housemaid’s gowns. One of them held a brush, the other a basin of water and cloth.

“I had assumed Robb Stark would return you wrapped in rags.” Tywin said. He strode over to the desk, his back to her and the women. “The boy takes every possible opportunity to spite me.”

“Undress, if you would, Your Grace.” The bigger of the women asked.

Myrcella glanced between the women and her grandfather, surprise giving way to abashedness “Would you leave me for this?” Usually, she wouldn’t have to ask; why he hadn’t left already?

She could hear him pouring a goblet of wine, smell the Arbor gold and the aged silver.

“I decided it would be best for you and I to speak privately.” Tywin said evenly. “If you would rather we discuss your future in public, and give your housegirls something to gossip about, you are free to meet me in the lord’s tent once you are dressed.”

Myrcella blinked.

“And what do you and I have to speak about concerning my _future_?”

“Your Grace.” Said the woman, her head downturned. “Your clothes, please.”

Grateful for the distraction, Myrcella slid off the straps of her overdress, letting it pool by her feet. The old woman took the neckline of her linen undergown in hand with the careful, reverent touch of a servant. There was something about that touch that always made Myrcella feel guilty - she was barely a third of this lady’s age, she had done nothing to deserve being treated with such deference. Shooting a cursory look to her grandfather, assuring his back was still to them, Myrcella tugged her dress down at the waist.

The cold rose the hairs on the back of her neck. Her smallclothes were old, ill-fitting and filthy; they’d only been given new ones a week ago. Myrcella shut her eyes halfway, not wanting to look at anyone, and peeled off the undergarment, sticky with days of sweat. The other woman sidestepped the two of them to set down her basin on the bedside table, and opened the chest, digging through it for a few very painful seconds while Myrcella covered herself with her hands. She pulled out a white shift, passing it to Myrcella to pull hastily over her shoulders.

“How old did you turn this year?” Tywin asked, still not facing her.

Myrcella straightened her shift. “I was eight and ten last week.”

The woman pulled a bundle of clothes out of the chest. “Raise your arms please, Your Grace.”

Myrcella did so, staying still as the women fitted it to her person. One of them gave her a gentle nudge towards the mirror, encouraging her to move so they could better examine her. The other threaded her fingers, wetted with water, into her hair, kneading it before running the brush through.

The undergown was cool from time spent in the box, the fabric lined and brick red. The sleeves were long and flowy, the neckline a demure v. It was covered by a maroon robe, embroidered with lilies of the same color and kept together at the navel by a golden, leaf shaped brooch. It was a style particular to the Westerlands, popular in King’s Landing, but it wasn’t one of her dresses.

“And unless I’ve been misinformed, you’ve bled by now?”

 _By the gods, who is talking to my grandfather about my moonblood?_ Her Uncle Tyrion, she assumed. There was only one subject which could bring about that sort of discussion.

Tybalt Crakehall. That was who she’d been hoping to marry. She had never had any misconceptions about it being realistic; who would allow a princess to marry a lord’s vessel? But almost every great house in Westeros was fighting them. She was hoping maybe, at the end of it all, the Crakehalls would be the only option.

The dream fell to her feet, shattering into a billion grainy pieces. Several names flitted through her mind - the Arryns, the Tullys, the Martells for a moment, before she struck it down. Tywin wasn’t a man to change his mind.

The woman combed her hair for a few seconds before realizing it was clean enough, twisting up two locks and conjoining them behind her head.

“I’m getting married, then.” Myrcella said, half to herself. Almost twenty years of expectation coalesced into a single moment. Somehow, she had thought there would be more buildup to this, that it wouldn’t happen so suddenly. Her heartbeat hadn’t sped up yet, but she was more aware of it’s rhythmic pulse than she usually was.

Tywin turned, assuming that she was finished. “You were a perceptive child.”

“To who?”

For a quarter of a second, he only looked at her, with those eyes which split men to the marrow. His eyes weren’t quite piercing; piercing implied a quarry for something one didn’t already know. Tywin looked at people like he had known them before they were born and would know them after they died, like he would be called as a witness when they were judged before the Father and recite all their deepest sins.

_What sins does he see in me, I wonder. I’ve known no men. I’ve stolen no gold. I’ve never even been drunk._

_Joffrey,_ She thought, her hands balling to fists. _He sees what happened with Joffrey._

"You will marry Robb Stark tomorrow evening in the Godswood of Silverhill.”

The floor fell out from underneath her. He kept going.

“Your Cousins, as well as Ellyn Banefort, will remain with you in the North until I find a suitable matches for each of them, or until I find their continuing presence there too great a threat to their-”

“You cannot make them come with me.” Myrcella spat, all her previous thoughts coming to a halt. There was too much to say, too much to ask, too much to feel, but this, this she could focus on. “They don’t belong in the North. Lord Banefort-”  
  
“Has already agreed.” Tywin finished for her, infuriatingly calm. “He knows his daughter is of more use to the interests of our newly shrunken kingdom then she would be rotting on the vine at the Banefort.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Of _use_?”

Tywin nodded at the two women hovering behind Myrcella, unsure of their purpose. “You’re dismissed.” The two made their exit without a word.

“Sit.” Tywin said to her. He indicated the desk and the covered platter, having been forgotten.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yes you are.” He moved smoothly over to her side of the room, looking down on her from his height. “Sit.”

Drawing herself up in the most frigid affect she could manage, Myrcella swept over to the desk, pulling out the chair and lifting the lid. Half a loaf of oaten bread, two fried duck eggs and a few rashers of bacon. She had eaten nothing but pork stew and dry sausage for a month; even through her shock, it was tempting.

“Joy and Rosamund aren’t safe in Winterfell.” She said. “I don’t see why you think this is a good idea.”

“You don’t have to.”

“ _Yes_ , I do.” Her voice shook slightly, even as she willed it to be commanding. “They’ll be my charge and my charge only, if I become Queen...” The volume of her voice died out as she tried to complete the title, like the words tasted disgusting in her mouth and she’d tried to swallow them all in one gulp. “What use are they to you so far from home?”

“Are you asking what use to me three westerlanders are within the heart of the Northern kingdom?”

 “Use someone else!” Myrcella half shouted. “Use the Swyft girls! Use one of the Plumms! Why them?” Her heart was beating like a drum in her chest, and she drew in a deep breath to slow it down. “How can you send two unwed girls from your own house to reside in a country that wants them dead, to be- to be what? Spies?”

Tywin scoffed, unbothered. “Rosamund and Joy are not the only unwed girls in our house.”

Myrcella opened her mouth, but Tywin cut her off. “Joy Hill is a bastard. Ellyn Banefort is a rumored deviant. Rosamund Lannister has just mauled a man, a feat which has made her quite the fantastic figure within the northern army. None of them, as they stand now, are perfectly suitable for marriage-” He came closer to her, resting the goblet on the desk right next to her hand. “And all of them have already been in your service for some years now. The Starks will see them as informal hostages, but not as suspicious figures. They will act in your service in the North, publically and clandestinely, protect you from threats within your own castle and intermingle with the Northern women. They will maintain their maidenhood, and when the next war inevitably comes to our doorstep, I will find them matches beneficial to the Westerlands.”

Myrcella swallowed hard around the growing lump in her throat. “We aren’t safe there.” She said, deadly quiet.

Tywin hummed. “They’ve a rigid sense of honor in the North.” He looked off away from her, a clear signal that he was done arguing. “Brutes though they are, I’d be surprised if any of them attacked an unarmed young woman in the court of the King.”

 _He is sick of me._ Myrcella thought. She didn’t know why he had even listened to her this much; usually, he wouldn’t accept this much dissent to any of his decisions.

“And my _husband?_ ” The word had always sounded so holy to her before this, marriage such a heavenly institution. “What of me and him? How much he hates me?”

“Oh, please.” Tywin said. “Robb Stark may ignore you, but he won’t abuse you. And if he does, bear you bruises openly and make his mistreatment known. Let the northmen see their King for what he is.” He slid his glove off his hand, working a gold ring off his finger. He tossed it into her lap.“This is yours.” It was; the signet ring, imprinted with the image of the stork.

Myrcella gaped at her grandfather, striding out of the tent. “Wait.” She heard herself say. “Wait.”

Tywin did not wait.

For one long, still moment, Myrcella just sat there alone, staring at nothing. The scent of the food wafted up to her nose, but it the temptation was gone; as a matter of fact, it was unbearably unappetizing. She would be hungry later, she knew; if there was anything these past few weeks had taught her it was to know when she would be hungry. But who could care, at a moment like this. Who could do anything.

But action was what she needed, considering the next step. She needed to do _something._ The idea of rebellion - of trying to prevent her oncoming bondage - was barely in the crib before it withered and died. Millions of maidens did this, were dragged into a sept with smiles painted on their faces, just as miserable as they would be on the eve of their deaths. They had before her and would after her. It was written in the books of women-

The books of women. Myrcella let out a shaky breath, needles stinging the backs of her eyes. _The Seven Pointed Star._ She had sought wisdom in those books so many times, she couldn’t count them, and every time she had found something that was at least somewhat comforting, that provided some measure of explanation to a frightening situation. On a whim, she covered the platter and rose, walking over to the bedside table. It had a single drawer. Taking the knob in hand, she realized that it was heavy; there was something inside. She drew it open, and found what she knew she would find.

An ancient, leathern copy of The Seven Pointed Star - the Book of the Smith, more specifically. It was ragged in the way that the books the Sept loaned out were ragged. She thought about what was in here; the lengthy saga of The Smith, from birth to his ascension to godhood, interspersed with stories of proud work and noble servitude concerning lowborn men and the lordly alike. The Smith was about routine, toil, creation. Eglantine had once told her that while the spirits of the Father and the Warrior interacted most closely with women (and the Stranger too, if they were very unlucky in the birthing bed), the Smith was the most similar to them; the value he placed on suffering for the making of new things was the one value which both sexes could hold true.

It was great, great luck that Myrcella didn’t just feel obligated to read these books, but she _liked_ them. She liked them, and for some reason it was that thought made the tears finally spill over the edge of her eyelids. She liked reading about the candlemakers son who spent seven days building his crippled father new legs and the lord who tore his castle down, brick by brick, trying to get his daughter to come down from her tower. It was almost a distraction, for ten seconds or so. But what use was any of this to her now? Queens couldn’t bury their noses in religious books foreign to their lands, they couldn’t worship gods their people rejected. She had anticipated ruling a large portion of land, but never being a queen, and never a queen to a man like this. Robb Stark must’ve known what was coming when he came to see her yesterday evening, and what he had said to her still made her want to strike him. Making snipes about “Her Father.” It wasn’t as if Myrcella hadn’t considered it before, that she might be a product of incest. The social implications frightened her, and the religious shook her to the core, but her heart couldn’t seem to decide whose child she wanted to be. All fears of the gods and loss of power seemed superficial before the fear that the late king would hate her for not being his, the fear that her uncle wouldn’t even want her as his child, the deep seated terror brought on by her indecision over one confounding question. Was it _better_ to be Jaime Lannister’s child, not in the eyes of gods or men, but in terms of her own morality? Was her mother and uncle’s proposed sin truly worse than King Roberts, in his decades of violent mistreatment of his wife and son? She chose to ignore that question because she had to ignore that question, to keep herself from being was trapped in a constant cycle of fear and uncertainty

And if her husband-to-be wanted to take that most intimate fear and throw it back in her face, what loyalties did she really owe him.

But that wasn’t true. She _would_ owe him loyalties. Even a bastard born of incest had duties as a wife, because no girl was exempt from feminine responsibility, not even those who had lived their entire lies in debauchery. The book of the Crone had taught her that. She would have to give him children, more than one most likely, the prospect so terrifying it made her stomach contract. She’d been preparing for marriage and childbirth her entire life, and there was wisdom in the books of the maiden and the mother about those sorts of things. What she wouldn’t do to have her own holy books back, somewhat weathered with age but annotated and underlined. But she had a very real feeling that if she read those books now, afforded too much thought to sex and what came after, she might throw up, or start sobbing, or disappear into a haze of uncontrollable panic.

So she squashed those prospects with brutal efficiency, deciding to shelf them until she had gotten her house in order. She used to do this when she was sad back at home, ignore her problems with something like gardening until she felt ready to deal with them.

Good gods, gardening. Myrcella gave an audible ‘oh,’ one hand floating up to her mouth. Nothing grew in the North, even in the summer, nothing but root vegetables and hardy weeds. She would never see her own flowers again, all those years of work dying in one fell swoop, and her hands would never touch fertile soil.

She could almost laugh. _I’m leaving my mother and brother and uncles behind, and I’m weeping over flowers._ She supposed that shockwave would hit her in it’s own time. Until then, she should find Joy and Rosamund and Ellyn, tell them what was happening if no one had told them yet. She rubbed her sleeves over her eyes, smoothed down her hair and clothes, and opened tge flap.

The camp was coming awake. A light, general chatter hung in the air, one man in the far distance shouting at somebody. The harsh sunlight made her squint, but the warmth was not half as strong. The morning air was crisp and cold, and a thin puff of white escaped her mouth. She could have gone back around the corner, try to find where they had been dropped off. But it had been a stable; she doubted they would still be standing there.

A man with tired eyes and greying brown hair was standing outside the tent directly across from her, fastening the clasps on his armor. His age and dress implied he was some sort of officer.

Start there, she supposed. “Pardon me, Ser.” She said, coming up to him, only then realizing how rough and sad her voice had become.

The man looked annoyed with her for a moment, but he absorbed her appearance, and his lips parted in shock. His armor clanked as he bowed hastily at the waist. “Your Grace.”

“Yes, do you know where the servant’s tents are?” Highborn handmaidens slept next to servants while on the warpath.

“Beyond the cooks tent, I believe, Your Grace, though I would not go near there right now.” He said hurriedly. “The men are breaking their fast, it is crowded, no place for a lady - would you tell your Lord Grandfather that Lord Farman would like to discuss with him the arrangement of the blacksmith’s carts?” He took her fingers in his gloved hand, an appealing look on his face.

“I.. if I see him, I will, Ser. Thank you.” Myrcella said, slipping out of his grasp. She thought she might have seen something that looked like a cooks tent, down a path they passed by on her way in. She intertwined her fingers in front of her stomach, and turned to the right of the pavilion.  

Her legs hadn’t stretched this much in weeks, nor had she felt the fresh air coarse through her lungs. Every man she passed paid her some sort of attention, as was always paid to highborn women in places like this, be it a passing glance or an unhidden stare. It wasn’t like it had been in Silverhill, though; nobody glowered at her, and she heard no whispers. She passed a woman she recognized from the court of King’s Landing, an lady of House Payne, who greeted her with a warm smile and a peck on the cheek. She felt like she had awoken from a lengthy nightmare, back in the real world at last. A new tide of misery flooded over her at the remembrance of her fate, how she only had this one day here before being shipped up north. Joy would be the most distraught of them all, she predicted, and suddenly she dreaded finding them.

The cooks tent, when Myrcella did reach it, was just as the man had said it would be; loud, crowded, and unruly, smelling of fresh bread and salt beef. Men, young and old, clustered around a table beneath the front of the tent, forming a crude lines. Those who’d already gotten their food sat in small groups on rocks, on crates, and on the ground. She wasn’t quite sure what “beyond” the cooks tent meant; past it, she assumed, but there were tents all around. She couldn’t tell which were the handmaids. Myrcella kept clear of the breakfast line, moving through the gaggle of men already eating. She looked this way and that, trying to see some tents which had an unusual number of women.

“...good for us though, wouldn’t they.” A young, pock faced fellow said, the heel of a loaf of bread in one hand and a dirk in the other. “Those men Lord Brax has kept at ‘is castle. Even if we’re done fighting with the northerners, he has no right to keep good soldiers from us.”

The man sitting across from him scoffed. “Have you met Brax’s house guard? Because I have. They’re younger than you, and the lot o’ them are as useful as a pile of whelped puppies. All blind and helpless, unknowing of the world.” He chuckled. “You heard ‘a how the Hound’s gone over to the Northern side? I’d like to see some of Brax’s little boys go up against that traitorous fucker.”

Myrcella almost interjected; asked where he got his information from, if he’d seen him. But the tale was nothing new to her. Rumors infested the Red Keep like fruit flies. She had heard that the Hound had gone over to the Northern side, and that Lady Prester was a witch who flew over the castle at night, and that Arya Stark was pretending to be a kitchen wench at Harrenhal. The Hound had deserted, and Lady Prester was strange, and Arya Stark was not dead as she had feared she was. But that didn’t mean it was all true.

A young girl with dark red hair turned a corner not far from her. That, she could assume, was where they were.

The male among the servants slept interspersed with the soldiers, but the girls stayed in a particular area of the camp, separated from the men by a long line of tents inhabited by washerwomen and camp followers. It made the handmaidens feel they were being treated appropriate to their position, and the lowborn serving girls feel safer within a sea of strangers. Turning the corner, Myrcella found it quieter than the main encampment, the brushing of leaves in the wind and the chirruping of morning birds more audible than it had been. The burnt out husks of last night’s campfires dotted the land between the tents. Far off, some ladies sat under the overhang of a large tent, drinking tea from a clay pot. Across from them, another woman was mending a brilliant red tunic, bronze shapes embroidered in the fabric. Myrcella almost walked into a little girl, Tommen’s age at most, with blotchy skin and curly hair obscuring her face. She was sitting on the ground in front of one of the tents, up to her elbows in a tub full of clothes soaking in soapy water.

“Pardon me.” Myrcella said, leaning down to speak to her. The girl’s head turned up.

“Yes, did you see three new girls come down here earlier this morning? Did you see which tent they went into?”

The girl looked like she understood what she was saying. She stuck a hand out and pointed at one of the pavillions, the one two tents down from where the ladies were.

“Thank you, my dear.”

It was easy to tell the young one was right, upon approaching the pavilion. Going up to it, Myrcella could hear someone talking inside, their voice raised and heated

The argument that had clearly been going on quieted upon her entrance. The tent was someone’s bedroom, but it looked too lived in to be one of the girls. Ellyn was sitting on a wooden stool, the dress the northerners had put her in balled up on the floor. She was dressed in fresh white smallclothes, covered by a dark brown quilt wrapped around her shoulders. She held her seaglass necklace in one clutching fist. Rosamund was standing behind Joy, her sleeves rolled up and her arms crossed in front of her chest. Joy was in a defensive stance, shoulders set and hands balled into fists. Her face was written in outrage, even as she whipped around to look at Myrcella.

In front of her was a tall, broad shouldered man, with jet black hair, a long nose and pink lips. There was something about him which was familiar; the tips of his ears sticking out from his hair, the dark brown shade of his eyes, the ovular curve of his chin. He was dressed like a common soldier, but the sword at his belt was of too good a make for him to be lowborn.

“Cella.” Ellyn said, straightening. “Do you know what’s… did they tell you?”

"They told me.”

Ellyn looked between her and the tall man. “Oh. This is Damon, my half brother.”

He bowed awkwardly at the waist. “Your Grace.”

Myrcella was taken aback. She had heard tell of this man many times from Ellyn, the bastard son of House Banefort ten years her senior, but she’d never met him in the flesh. “Hello.”

“He was just telling us where we’re headed.” Rosamund cut in, voice as bitter as black tea.

The man looked vaguely offended. “It isn’t my decision, my lady.”

“I never said it was.” Joy said. She was shifting endlessly in her spot, a tick of hers; Joy could never stay still when she was angry. “I said it was nonsense. Lord Tywin has never been so careless, nor has Lord Banefort, all of a sudden he’s sending us _back_ to that fresh frozen hell?”

“My father can’t say no to Tywin.” Damon said, voice deep and nasal. “Don’t talk him down just because you’re unhappy with your circumstances.”

“And don’t downplay my concerns just because you can’t appease them! Do you think I’m just having a fit? They are going to _hurt us_.” Joy’s voice quavered on those last words.

“She’s right.” Rosamund said. “We are westermen in a nation the westerlands has scorned, they’ll never let us live there unmolested.”

“Do you remember hearing about old Amerei Bracken?” Ellyn cut in, her tone low and fearful.

Joy seemed to know who it was. “The Bracken girl sent to serve at Raventree Hall. She was there for three weeks before the lord’s sons beat and raped her, the story says. We are all Amerei Brackens, surrounded by enemies and ill-wishers. They hate us already, they’re right to hate us, oh, it’s all Joffrey’s fault, the foul little…”

“Well, I’ll come with you, then!” Damon interrupted in a tone that implied he was repeating himself. He turned away from Joy to look down at his sister. “Why won’t you let me do that for you, Ellyn? Do you _want_ to be alone up there?”

“Damon, you have a child.” She had to crane her head up to look him in the face. “I won’t bring you back north just after the war ends. Go home, be with Erena, you can write to me-”

“Just let me talk to my uncle.” Joy interrupted. “I only need to speak with him.”

“I don’t think he’ll be willing to listen to you, Joy.” Rosamund said.

“I don’t care. Take me to him.”

Damon looked to his sister for instructions.

“Take her.” Ellyn said quietly.

Joy strode out of the tent, eyes stubbornly fixed on the side of Myrcella’s head.

"Pardon me, Your Grace.” Damon said, sidestepping her to follow Joy out.

Myrcella was left standing in the threshold of the tent. Ellyn sighed, eyes trained on the tent flap like she was watching a building crumble. And Rosamund’s scowl deepened.

As if her desire for it had somehow willed it into being, the rest of the day went by agonizingly slowly. Rosamund brought all three of them to be examined by a maester, to see if Myrcella’s ailment had left any lingering effects and get a draught for her insomnia. She had hoped to see her uncle again, but Jaime had been admitted to the infirmary, the maester told her, and had been in a deep sleep since he got there. She had no plans to wake him, but Myrcella still ducked into the sterilized tent, uncrowded since there had been no battles recently.

Her uncle was utterly unrecognizable. His hair had been long and coarse when she first saw him, but someone had sheared it to a neck-length since then, stray pieces of golden hair strewn around his pillow. No one had touched his beard, thick and curly like a wizard’s and streaked with silver. He’d lost at least fifty pounds, and there were bandaged sores on his calves and thighs from too much time spent in a sitting position. Her mother would faint at the sight of him.

Some Lannister soldier, Lord Marbrand, she suspected, had left Jaime’s old sword leaned up against the wall near his bed. Myrcella grasped the hilt, much more fitting in her hand than it had been when she was a little girl. She wondered if she would ever see him again after today.

Jaime’s eyelids twitched when she pressed a kiss to his cheek. That, that little sign of life, could almost be called comforting.

Ellyn went off after her brother for a while, hoping to speak to him privately, while Rosamund stalked off into the woods to find nettles for tea. Myrcella would’ve gone with her, were it not for the knowledge that Rosa needed that time alone; she was an introverted personality, and four weeks trapped in a room with three others had grated on her sanity. Myrcella tried her absolute damndest to keep busy - crossed the camp twice fetching well water, borrowed some cloth from a lord’s wife and worked on her sewing, even burned thirty minutes helping a whore look for her lost earring. Nevertheless, she had an excess of unoccupied time, and as she feared, ended up swimming in dread and worst-case scenarios.

Myrcella had once overheard a story from a bedmaid who’d spent time working at an army encampment. She’d gone out onto a beach one evening to make her water and came across a captain coupling with a woman. The captain grunted so loud, he could be heard twenty paces away, his woman thrown over a rock with her dress hiked up around her hips as he took her, fiercely, from behind. The woman’s body shook, her face screwed up in pain, and when he finished, she yelped like a whipped horse.

If that story stuck out clearly in Myrcella’s mind, it was because it was the most blatant discussion of “bedroom activities” that she had ever heard. She knew that whores had sex for coin and noblewomen were only to have sex after marriage, that septas were wed to the Father and would only know that satisfaction in the heavans. It was supposed to feel good. Myrcella had the barest amount of knowledge about that; she had, on the rarest occasions, allowed herself to dip her fingers between her legs and commit what the good books called “personal fornication.” The guilt that came in the morning felt worse than the pleasure felt pleasurable, just as the Septas had told her it would; why suffer the regret of grievous sin just to poke around your parts for a few minutes? She supposed knowing that it _could_ feel good should have been reassuring, but the thought of having something shoved up inside of that particular place made her want to chain her legs together and throw away the key.  

Ellyn wasn’t a virgin, at least not most likely; she came back to her bedroom with disheveled clothes and matted hair more than once. But Ellyn had known only cook’s daughters and stablegirls, she wasn’t familiar with sex in the most usual sense. Joy talked about boys with a wide grin and flushed cheeks, bold in a maidenly way that just edged on improper. Rosamund would disapprove, only mentioning men who were “husbandly prospects” in chaste, bored tones, as stiff in her values as the rigid stalk of a sunflower. If they all loathed the idea of being forced into a foreign nation that hated Lannisters like a mass-killing plague, who could say how they thought _she_ should react to her marriage. How she should treat it.

( _There was an image that kept popping into her mind, of being thrown over a rock, Robb Stark driving into her from behind. Another, of Robb Stark writhing around on top of her, trying to open her legs with his knees. Myrcella knew the image would not leave her for a very long time.)_

She didn’t see Joy again until the evening, when she strode into her tent with dried tears on her cheeks and a bitter scowl on her face. She wouldn’t offer details of her meeting with Tywin, if it even happened, which Myrcella doubted it had. Heartily sick of crying, she said she was, plopping down on the desk chair and staying there. She found the ignored bacon and eggs from that morning, and wolfed it down, despite it being cold and dewey from being covered. Rosamund returned with a platter of tea, Ellyn with a slightly less reserved demeanor and a letter from her half-brother’s wife.

“Erena wishes you her best, Myrcella.” Ellyn said, one hand extended for Rosamund to pass her a steaming cup. She sat cross legged on the bed, her hair up in two braids swept over each shoulder.

Rosamund knit her brows. “Your good-sister is a milkmaid at the Banefort, isn’t she? How does she know about this farce already?”

"She doesn’t, it’s an old letter. She only knows that I work for you.” Her mouth twisted from the heat as she took a long sip.

Rosamund hummed her recognition.

“It’s my uncle.” She said, passing Myrcella another cup where she stood. “He’s the one doing this to us. Gods forbid he not have a finger in every pie.”

“We can’t keep fighting into the winter.” Ellyn said. “Not on two fronts at least.”

“I know that. But it’s his fault Myrcella has to _marry_ the bastard. You know what he’s done to the Riverlands, if Tywin learned how to fight a war cleanly, we could have an armistice without a wedding.” She placed a cup down in front of Joy on the desk, who didn’t touch it. One hand was pressed against her cheek, the other tapping it’s fingers gently on the wood.

"Are you honestly taking their side?” Ellyn asked, inching towards anger. “Do you have any idea what is happening in the westerlands? _Our_ lands?”

“Better than you do, in fact.” Rosamund said.

“Joy was right.” Myrcella cut in before they could escalate. “Joffrey pulled the wolf’s tail, he started all of this. But.” She walked over to where Ellyn was on the bed. “None of that really matters, now, does it.” Their thighs pressed together as she sat down beside her.

“The wedding is tomorrow morning?” Ellyn asked.

Myrcella shook her head. “Tomorrow evening. I don’t know how they’ll get everything together in time.”

“Do you think…” Joy began, her position not changing but her expression shifting slightly. “Do you think we’ll get to see the Wall?”

Rosamund and Myrcella shared a look. “At some point, maybe.” The former said. “Depending on the whims of Myrcella’s new husband.”

Joy wet her lips, nodding slowly.

“I wonder if it’s everything they say it is.”

“It is.” Ellyn said. “My brother knew a man who arrested some Night’s Watch deserters, years ago. They said the wall reached up into the sky and broke through the clouds, like the shield of the Warrior being thrust down into the earth.”

“I thought northerners didn’t keep the faith of the seven” Rosamund said.

“They don’t. It was Damon’s analogy.” She scoffed. “He told me the story at his own wedding, actually.”

Joy perked up at that, back straightening. “Do you remember the last wedding we went to?” She asked Rosamund. “It was… cousin Mera, wasn’t it?”

“One of our cousins, who knows which. But I remember that, yes.” Rosamund sounded dismissive of the woman’s identity, but she gave Joy a tentative smile. “You must remember the cherry soup.”

Joy huffed a short laugh. “Don’t even say the word. I can still taste the vomit. I swear, I’m never eating any again.”

“You know what part of it I loved?” Rosamund said, leaning forward. “The dancing. The women did this dance from Ashemark, where they wore long skirts and took such short steps, they looked like they were floating.”  

Joy sighed, tilting her head to the side. “It was beautiful.”

"It was.” Rosamund said. “It was.”

The lull in the conversation seemed to drain whatever happiness their reminiscing had awoken. For several seconds, the four of them just sat there, listening to the wind blowing outside. Myrcella threaded her hands into her dress, her hair hanging down in front of her eyes.

Ellyn drained her tea cup, placing it on the floor beside the bed. “We should get some sleep.” She ghosted a hand over Myrcella’s arm as she stood up. “I’ll see you before the wedding, yes?”

She held her black cloak close to her body, heading for the tent flap. Joy got up from her desk and followed her, looking back over her shoulder at Rosamund. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll stay.”

Joy blinked, but didn’t question it.

“Goodnight, Rosamund. Myrcella.”

“Goodnight.”

She was left alone in her tent with Rosamund, drafty in the way that all tents were and impersonal in it’s cleanliness. Abruptly, she realized how thankful she was that Rosamund was still here, that she wasn’t alone with her thoughts. Rosa looked down at her from where she was, leaning up against the desk and bracing her hands behind her.

“Have you ever been with any men?” She asked bluntly.

Myrcella bit her inner lip, somewhat hurt. “Never.”

Rosamund nodded, expression unchanging. “Some girls lie about that sort of thing. Some men get angry when they realize.” She strode over to her, taking one of the wolf pelts from the bed.

Myrcella stared at her, the look a question in and of itself.

“You’ll be going back to Winterfell with Robb Stark once the two of you are wed, I’m assuming.” Rosa said. “My uncle must’ve been anticipating this, or at least, preparing for our release.” She wrapped the pelt around her shoulders. “I saw some carriages marked from King’s Landing. Maybe one of them has your things in it. Maybe it has some of my things in it.”

“I see.” It was late and cold, but it would be nice to know where some of her own things were. “Are they far from here?”

“No.” Rosamund said. The green candle was lit, it’s light flickering, and Rosamund picked it up. She turned towards the tent flap, gesturing for Myrcella to follow her. “Come. I’ll take you there.”

The night air was damp and sharply cold, the half-moon obscured by thick fog. It made fireplaces harder to spark and the firewood harder to gather. One had to wonder how the Northmen got on, in their perpetually frozen realm. Many of the men were asleep by now, but some of them were lingering, huddled about crackling fire pits and feeding them twice a minute to keep them from going out. Figures illuminated in hazy orange torchlight moved through the camp like fireflies on a summer night. The ground was moist and soft, and by the quivering light of the candle she could barely see four feet in front of her.

They went down a path to the left of the tent, cold wind threatening to blow it out. “Stay close to me.” Rosamund said. “I looked earlier, there were no unclaimed torches.”

A man in leather armor passed the two of them by, walking in the other direction. His face, it’s features cut like carved stone, was illuminated by the torch in his hand. A long, thin sword hanging from his belt. He reminded Myrcella of someone else.

“Did you see how Arya Stark looked at us?” Rosamund said, clearly having the same thought. “She might as well have been growling.”

“Our houses didn’t part on the best terms.”

“I don’t give a damn.” Rosamund said, the vulgarity an unusual occurrence for her. Myrcella could hear the hate in her voice, easier to level at a visibly aggressive target than someone more deserving. “If she treats me bad, I’m slipping one of Joy’s malachite earrings in her mead. Poison the little wolf girl”

“Do not say things like that around the Starks.” Myrcella stressed. “Ellyn used to fancy her, you know. I wonder if she recognized her.”

Rosa laughed, a humorless sound. “You’re wedding the brother, and Ellyn will get to be near the sister. How very nice for the both of you.

“You think I’m going to enjoy this?”

For a second, Rosa looked bitter, but it went away as fast as it came. “No.” She said. “But you _will_ be a queen. Whatever else it will be like, you’ll be living comfortably.”

Myrcella pressed her lips into a thin line. “If you wanted me to…” Rosamund looked at her, curious. “If you wanted me to, I could dismiss you and the others from my service after we get on the road. I know it’s not what Tywin wants, but he can’t do anything about it once we’re out of his reach.”

Rosamund considered it for a second.

“The Westerlands are still at war with Stannis.” She said plainly. “It frightens me to say it, but it’s safer up north, no matter how much they hate us.

“I know that. But still, you might have been more comfortable in danger at home than in danger at Winterfell. Especially considering they just kidnapped us.” She added.

Rosamund clasped her hands together, silent for a moment. “In my family’s apartments in Casterly Rock, there’s a tapestry we have hung over the fireplace in the common room. It’s of a lioness, as you can imagine, over a field of pale green. There’s a sword thrust through it’s back, two arrows in it’s side and another lodged in it’s belly, but the beast is still alive. It snarls at whoever enters the room, and it’s claws are reared towards them. You know how Maester Argrave describes Valyrian dragons in the histories?” She seemed far away, as if back in the common room with the tapestry. “Fiery eyed, he calls them, like the sparks of dying coals? That’s how the lioness looks.”

Rosamund saw Myrcella’s face, and smiled, morose. “Janei was always terrified of her. But I loved that animal. It always made me feel stronger than I actually was.”  

“Janei?”

“My little sister.”

Of course. Rosamund had a little sister. It was dispiriting, to know there had been a little girl in Rosamund’s life who hadn’t seen her in at least four years now. She had sewn a blanket for the baby niece she knew Ellyn had, listened to Joy talk about her late father and prayed for Willem and Martyn’s souls at the Sept of Baelor, but Janei Lannister was a stranger to her. Rosamund never spoke about her, and it wasn’t hard to guess why.

On farthest western side of the Lannister encampment, a procession of wooden carriages were parked, overlooked by a thin wood of pine trees. Most of them had been emptied out by now, and were awaiting their return to where they came from, but a few were still full. Rosamund lifted the candle to look through their windows as they passed.

“Barrels..” She said uninterestedly. Myrcella took a few steps forward to pass her, looking into a cart which she could hardly tell was empty.

They carried on for some time like that, in the dark, going down the line with gradually increasing haste. They found a cart loaded with iron helmets, boxes of potatoes, poorly made swords, even a cart full of clucking chickens, but only one or two looked like they had someone’s personal belongings in them, and those were clearly not hers.

“Hey.” Rosamund eventually said, looking inside one of the smaller carts of the bunch. She stuck a hand between the sparse bars of the window and withdrew a folded up textile, half embroidered with green vines and bright blue flowers, the stitches a little bit crooked. She held it up beside her head like a trophy. “Isn’t this yours?”

Myrcella grinned.

“The doors are all locked, don’t bother trying.” Her face was pressed up against the small window. “But the tents around this place have the drivers inside. We could find which one drove this one and get the key.”

She shook her head. “It’s too late at night. They’re probably asleep. Besides, we shouldn’t unload it entirely.”

“Oh, I know that, Cella, I’m coming back in the morning. I just want to see if there’s anything of mine in there.” She leaned in closer, eyeing something inside with intense focus.

Myrcella drew back, waiting for her to finish. Her legs were heavy, her eyelids droopy. To sleep on a real bed for the first time in four weeks suddenly sounded extremely seductive, especially considering where she would be sleeping tomorrow evening. The reminder made her heart twist anew, but the pain was duller than it had been in her exhaustion. A frigid droplet hit the shell of her ear.

“We should go back to the tent.” Myrcella said. “I think it’s starting to rain. We can share the bed tonight, if you don’t want to walk back to yours.”

“Give me one minute.” Rosamund told her. She had one hand thrust between the bars, trying to fit it in further.

Another droplet hit the top of her head. Something about it was odd; it’s touch wasn’t quite as sharp as rain wasn’t supposed to be. A drop hit her hand, her forehead, her nose, but she still didn’t hear the consistent trill of rain falling.

Myrcella looked off into the distance, and saw something she’d never seen before.

It was like balls of dust falling from the sky. Down they drifted from the heavens more neatly than rain, as if programmed to do so, a fleet of semi-solid flakes landing on her without a splash. They cast a film over the moon, the sound of it like an entire forest’s worth of leaves all rustling at the same time. Myrcella turned her head upward towards the sky, letting it melt on her cheeks, cooling the tension in her. She sucked in a hard breath, the cold stinging her nostrils. Her exhale formed a cloud above her.

Myrcella had never seen snow fall before. Patches of snow in Winterfell and some hail when they were in captivity, but never anything like this. It was too natural to be majestic, a clear function of the earth, but the elation washing over her was majesty enough. She had rarely known this, the childish, visceral euphoria of a truly new experience.

She was meant to be here tonight, Myrcella thought, ignoring the arrogance of theorizing divine intervention. This was hers, Robb Starks’ rather, and when they wed all this would be her domain. The snow and the sleet and the cold, wet air, House Stark’s lifeblood. She could acquiesce, she told herself, she’d learn to survive it.

A snowflake struck the back of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. She would learn to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That "pile of whelped puppies" comment is based on some dialogue from the game Outlast Whistleblower, in case anybody was wondering. The wedding is up next; the povs in that chapter are going to alternate once, I think. I'm open to all commentary!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella, on her wedding day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bear to write! It got very long, so I decided to split it up; the next part is finished, and I'll post it tomorrow after some final editing. Enjoy!

Somebody was tugging on her foot.

Instinctively, Myrcella drew it back under the covers. She thought it might have been Rosamund, but she could still feel her weight on the other side of the bed, warm and unmoving. It felt like just a minute ago she had laid down; she fell asleep before she even realized she was tired. 

Someone was speaking, tapping her leg through the pelts. There was a “Grace” in their sentence, but she didn’t catch the rest of it, and she didn't recognize their voice. 

Myrcella’s back ached as she sat up, trying not to wake Rosamund beside her. She could see the shapes of other people in the room, but a sticky substance was gathered in the corners of her eyes, obscuring her vision. She rubbed it out with her thumbs, blinking over and over again.

“Good day, Your Grace.” A female voice said, her tone sounding practiced. "You slept through the morning." She came into view slowly; a woman in her twenties, with thin, light brown hair and pale skin. Her neck was short and her face round, despite her thin build. Behind her was another lady, one of the two who’d dressed her yesterday, less tense than she had seemed the day before. She was holding something that looked like folded clothes pressed up to her chest.

Myrcella bent her legs up to her chest, tapping on Rosamund’s arm. She groaned, turning over on the mattress. 

“Who’s there?” She slurred, eyes still shut.

“Handmaids, I think.” 

“Rise, please, Your Grace.” The brown haired girl said. She walked over to the other end of the tent, leaving the other maid standing there. Myrcella threw her legs over the side of the bed, her joints protesting the movement. 

“Handmaids?” Rosamund said irritably, leaning up on her elbows. “I'm your bloody handmaid, who are these two?” 

“You will return to her grace’s service after the wedding, My Lady.” The girl said evenly. She gestured to a wooden bowl on the desk, drawing out the chair behind it. “There’s breakfast for you, princess, please sit.” 

Marcella ambled over to the desk, taking her seat. It was plain oatmeal, the bowl not even half full, with a goblet full of water beside it. She recalled hearing that women were fed like this on the morning of their weddings, their family members not wanting to make them throw up. The young woman pulled a comb out of her sleeve, wiping some stray strands out of Myrcella’s face with cold fingers. 

The sudden intimacy was a bit unsettling. “What’s your name?” 

“Prella, Your Grace.” 

“Did my uncle send you?” Rosamund asked, still in bed. The morning sunlight was powerful, shining through the slit of the flap like some sort of heavenly entrance. It made Rosamund squint. She let herself down onto her back, tugging the furs up to her shoulder.

“Lord Tywin did send us, yes, My Lady.” Prella took one lock of hair in her fist and tugging out a knot in the middle. “He’ll meet you before the ceremony this evening.” 

Myrcella turned away, looking down at her oatmeal. Prella was running the comb along her skull, pulling her head backwards slightly as she tugged out knots. It didn’t make her want to attempt eating. The older woman was smoothing down a set of clothes on the unoccupied side of the bed. If Rosamund noticed her, she only groaned in recognition, rapidly falling back asleep. 

By the time Prella was finished, her hair was dark gold frizz, which she pulled into a simple bun above the nape of her neck. She’d barely put a dent in her oats, tasteless as they were. She couldn’t tell if the turning of her stomach was a result of hunger or nervousness, but considering how untempting they seemed to her, she suspected it was the latter. 

“Please stand, Your Grace.” Myrcella was already getting up. 

The older woman helped her into a dark, dull pink gown, with a high neck and patterns embroidered along the edges. They had her wear trousers underneath, a style she supposed she had to get used to, and a cloak fastened with leather straps around the chest. Her signet ring sat on her bedside table; she didn’t feel quite like wearing it right now, but she slipped it into her pocket just the same.

“We’ll be going through the forest, Your Grace.” Prella said. “It’s faster there. We have a horse brought around for you.” 

Myrcella looked back at where Rosamund was sleeping. Her hair had fallen over her face, a lock of it caught in her mouth. Myrella wouldn’t begrudge her sleeping through the day, but it would have been nice to see a familiar face in the crowd. She gave her cousin one last glance before being ushered out of the tent, Prella with a gentle hand on her elbow and the older woman following behind them.   
  
The sky was a shocking shade of blue that day, the sun a burning white light hanging in the middle. A layer of boot-trodden snow coated the ground, thin layers dusting the sloped roofs of the tents. The camp was louder than it had been; a torrent of soldiers in red cloth and brown leather moved up and down the path, talking and laughing and arguing all the while. The tent across from her was dismantled, two young men sorting through a pair of barrels in the empty space it had left. They had to wait a few seconds before entering the stream, going down the same way she had gone with Rosamund yesterday evening.

It wasn’t as easy a walk as she remembered. The sunlight was harsh in her eyes, and the jauntiness of her legs from so much time asleep was incongruous with the pace of everyone else. A man walking too fast ran into her side, eliciting a surprised ‘oh’ from Prella and an aborted gesture to help from the older woman. The man seemed barely to notice her, patting her twice on the arm before moving on.  

“What’s your name, My Lady?” Myrcella asked, looking back at the woman. She had seen her twice by now, there was no reason not to know. 

“Bess, Y’Grace.” She said, accent as thick as molasses. 

Myrcella hummed. “Where are you from?”

“Strongsong, Y’Grace.” 

“Bess will leave your service immediately after the wedding.” Prella cut in, her tone still pleasant and rehearsed. “Then your old retinue of handmaids will work for you again.”

The wet steps of a hundred boots hung in the air. A moment passed before Myrcella spoke again, unsure of how to respond. 

“You told me that.” She eventually said. 

“I did.” Prella said, voice a shade more low. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.” 

“It’s fine.”

They walked on in silence, Myrcella tugging the cloak closer to her person. She craved wine, all of a sudden, or the strong pear brandy her father would drink sometimes. It was strange; she’d never been anything of a drinker before. But her nerves were wide awake today, her jaw clenched and her back straight without her meaning for them to be. It was a crawling, encroaching sort of anxiety, the anticipation of how overwhelming the fear would grow just as upsetting as the fear itself. 

The wagons looked different in the daylight, the dark, weathered wood more detailed and their contents more visible through the bars. Two men were unloading crates of vegetables from one of the wagons in the front, and at least three of the carts she remembered being full the night before were empty. At the edge of the pine forest overlooking the wagons, a spotted stock horse was tied up at a post, saddled, head bent as it chewed on the grass. 

Myrcella raised one leg to put her foot in a stirrup, gripping the reins fiercely as she pulled herself up onto it’s back. She straightened herself, waiting as Prella unfastened it from the post. There had never been many places to ride in King’s Landing. At least, not to ride fast; the streets were narrow and crowded, and when horses did pass through, they could only do so one at a time in most places. The Kingswood was an excellent place for riding; the wide, well kept paths, the warm air, the gold light filling the spaces between the trees. The woods here were pine instead of oak, and it was colder than it had been in King’s Landing, but the smell of clear air and damp wood did put her at ease. 

“Are you going to meet me?” She asked, looking down at where Prella and Bess were standing. There was no room for two more people on the back of the horse. 

“Oh no, Your Grace. I’ll lead you there.” Prella smiled again, taking the reins of the horse from her. “Come now.” 

Myrcella was taken aback. What was the point of getting on a horse if they weren’t going to ride? It was improper to ask a noblewoman to walk for so long, she realized with a strange jolt of bitterness. 

“Why not just go down the main path?” She asked. Prella led the horse forward, crossing through the first few trees. 

She smiled up at her. “It’s a faster route to Silverhill, Your Grace. And more private anyhow.”

 _They just don’t want to show me to the Northern Army._ Myrcella frowned, looking ahead. 

The forest was freezing, but still beautiful. The strong sunlight combined with the freshly fallen snow had caused an odd phenomenon; the trunks of the trees were steaming. The branches all had a thin coat of snow, showering them with white dust every time the wind blew. It should have been a magical moment, she thought, but all she could think of was how snow on a wedding day was a bad omen. It had snowed on the morn of her Uncle Stannis’s marriage to Selyse Florent, and they had never seemed anything but miserable. Even before the War of the Five Kings, Myrcella had fostered a certain amount of dislike to her Uncle and Aunt. Stannis could be respectable sometimes, but when she did on rare occasions see his wife, Selyse seemed to be made of biting comments and useless criticisms. _I wonder if that will be me in twenty years._  

“There will be no Septon, this evening, Your Grace.” Prella said. “The ceremony will be fairly short, as well. Your Lord grandfather will escort you to the groom, and when they ask you if you take this man, say you will. That’s all that you’ll be required to say. Afterwards, you’ll join hands with the groom, kneel before the heart tree, and bow your heads. When you rise, he will remove the maiden’s cloak and place the bride’s cloak around you, after which he will carry you to the feast.”

Myrcella’s head whipped around to look at her. “He’ll _carry_ me? In his arms?” 

Prella nodded several times. “Yes, he will carry you to the dining hall. It’s somewhat strange, isn’t it.” She said on a laugh. “You’ll only be in his arms for a minute or so, Your Grace.” 

Her mouth hung open for a second, disbelieving. She was expecting an uncomfortable degree of publicness to this, assuming they went through with the bedding, but not so soon. Not to be _carried_ by her husband in front of a group of strangers. No one had done that to her since she was a child; somehow, it felt more obscene than the bedding, more obscene than the sex itself. 

They passed by a round lake, the leaves of the surrounding evergreens having partially turned orange. Just barely, she could see the figure of a man standing by the edge, what looked like a dog beside him. Up ahead was the end of the forest, leading out into the stone walls of Silverhill. The castle wasn’t small, but it also wasn’t well kept, the wide cracks in the bricks and the vines snaking up the sides characteristic of a less wealthy lord. The horse sniffed loudly, a plume of white breath escaping it’s nostrils. Myrcella ran a hand along it’s neck like she used to do to Orys, the long haired, black and white percheron horse that was waiting for her in the stables of the Red Keep. She wondered what would happen to him, now that she was gone. Maybe she could send a letter, have someone bring her horse down to the North. Even if she did, it would take several months for the animal to arrive, and it felt frivolous to ask someone to ride so long just to bring her a horse. 

Myrcella could still remember the smell of this place, the compounded dust and wet stones. The castle had seemed infinitely huge when they were first rushed in, not having enough time to even look up and see the roof. Passing through the last few trees, it looked less large from atop horseback. Myrcella scratched the beast’s ears, suddenly more thankful for it.  

“Dismount here, please, Your Grace.” Prella said, just at that moment. Myrcella almost scowled at her. 

Prella had Bess take the horse around to the stables, leading her in through a door in the side of the castle. They came in on a long hallway she didn’t recognize, sparsely occupied with serving women. Black iron sconces dotted the walls, unlit. No one gave her dirty looks, not anymore, but no one refrained from staring at her either. Up ahead, they passed two men in leathern armor, talking by a window. Their conversation died out when they saw her, starting back up again when she was down the hall. 

Around a corner was a wide, quiet hall, with only one door on the right side of the room. Myrcella felt her throat tighten up. She had bathed in that room with Rosamund and Ellyn and Joy, had felt her skin turn dry with lye soap and coughed mucus into the water. There was only one thing to do before the wedding, and this was where they meant to do it, she realized with a sinking feeling. She was supposed to wash there. 

Prella urged her on. Myrcella didn’t move. 

“I don’t want to go in there.” Myrcella said. Her voice was pathetically small, enough to wound her pride, but it was still true. “I can wash off in the kitchen, or just go back to the camp, but I-”

“We’re- we’re not going in there, Your Grace.” Prella said, leaning over to look into Myrcella’s face. “Come with me, come with me, please.” 

They turned a corner, coming upon a staircase. Downstairs was another hallway, shorter and dimmer, with one door along the right wall and another at the end. This was the subterranean part of the castle, made clear by the lack of windows and the smoky, stifled air. In the Red Keep, this area had been for the dungeons, the secret rooms, the storage spaces for ancient artifacts. 

Prella opened the door on a well lit chamber with lofty ceilings and walls of broken stone cemented together. In the corner was a round wooden tub, bound with iron and filled with steaming, sudsy water, a step ladder leading up to the rim of the tub. It was stuck between a stone oven, a metal pot inside hanging over a pit of bright orange coals, and a table set with towels and a tray of creams, oils and salts. A stool sat in front of a wooden screen, a full length mirror and chest behind it. The room was a bride’s fantasy, from the wax dripping from the floor-standing candles to the flowers carved into edges of the screen.

Three young women stood waiting inside. They had the look of the first men to them; dark hair, cut features, skin tanned from time spent outdoors. On the right was a tall, elegant girl, brown hair kept from her eyes by thin twists circling her skull. Her face was expressionless, her hands clasped in front of her stomach. The girl beside her, black haired with stains up and down her dress, stared at Myrcella openly, like she hadn’t expected her to exist. The third girl looked to be the oldest, though her hair was still in the twin braided style characteristic of a younger woman. Her complexion was so dark she could almost have been dornish, were it not for the blotchiness of her cheeks and the distinctly northern jut of her chin. 

Marcella heard the door close behind her. Her captivity had been similar to her everyday life in this way, where everything was planned out for her by other people. It would end once she was a queen, at least partially. It would end by tomorrow morning. 

She was stripped, and the older girl and her stoic counterpart had her sink into the tub. She set her shoulders and bit her lip, trying to make herself comfortable with being naked in front of strangers. It was more of a self-induced numbness than a real comfort. Prella ducked behind the wooden screen, taking the last girl with her. Myrcella could hear them talking about the hemming of a dress, the embroidery on a cloak. The older girl stationed herself behind her, taking cupped handfuls of water and soaking Myrcella’s hair. She lathered a vial of milky liquid into her scalp, running a brush from the tray through her hair. She knew why they were doing this, to make it wavy rather than frizzy, but she still felt like primping was all she’d done since being freed. In the cell, she’d imagined doing so many things - riding along the winding streams of the riverlands and feeding the birds in the summer isles, seeing the massive peaks of ice beyond the wall and tasting shade of the evening in Qarth. She’d imagined being a tavern maid back at home, her hair down, garbed in loose flowing fabric. It was a horrid, if understandable thought, to imagine being a slattern like that; doing simple work to earn a simple keep, drinking bad wine (however much she’d like) and meeting different men with different temperaments rather than being stuck with one angry husband till the end of her days.

The black haired girl took a scoop of a wet, salt looking substance from a bowl and spread it over her back. Her hand dipped around to scrub her chest, sides and neck, fingers slipping under her breasts to get the skin there. Myrcella shuddered. She knew, outside of the constraints of religion, why girls like that walked bad paths in life. Tavern girls got beaten by their employers, groped by their patrons, raped by some of the bolder (or richer) ones. Tavern girls lost their babies, their wombs watered down by ale and smoke and a lack of rest through the pregnancy. 

But the Hand’s wife lost babies too, didn’t she? Lysa Aaryn, the sad eyed lady who alternated between doting on her and glowering at her, had been pregnant three times while Myrcella knew her, and all three ended in miscarriage. Her mother and her had had dinner in Lysa’s apartments just a few weeks after she lost the third baby. Myrcella still remembered that visit, the food, the wine, the uncomfortable conversation. Lysa had limped about her rooms, serving them sausage and pears in oil and showing off her blue and white jasper teapot, an heirloom of her House. Nobody commented on the cushion on her seat, nor the grimace on her face when she sat down. There was a whole month when her mother walked around with a huge, purplish yellow bruise covering her right cheek, the color ebbing away everyday but the memory of how she got it remaining. The King struck her over the side with a candlestick when they were fighting, several times, one right after the other. Sansa had been fourteen when Joffrey had her stripped before the court, Myrcella sixteen when he’d tried to force her legs open. When he’d tried to _force_ her to give up her virtue. It was the most befuddling of contradictory ideals, that the septons and the good books and all the women at court told her to maintain her virtue above all else, but as she grew, all men seemed to want from her was to surrender that virtue. That was why they taught the lesson so fiercely, she supposed; because it was harder and harder to stay a virgin, the older a girl became. 

Well. She didn’t have to worry about that anymore. Marriage absolved her from abstinence, if only to one man. But what sort of good even was that? She was free to have sex with her husband, to be _taken_ by her husband, to be held apart at the knees by a man who hated her and bear him children through her blood and tears. It was holiness, Myrcella thought, the girl’s hands dipping into the water to rub down her back. The suffering of womanhood, coupling and childbirth in place of battle and blood. It was a fair trade, it made complete sense, even as it made her heart ache so fiercely she could have cried. 

The girl lifted each of her feet out of the water to scrub them, took each of her hands in her own and rubbed them down. She could feel the brush moving smoothly through her hair, feel it being swept down her back. Right when she thought they were finished, they found something else to do, a new place on her body that needed to be clean. At one point, the girl had her reach out a hand and take a palmful of oil, allowing her wash between her legs herself. Eventually, the women had her rise, laying one towel on the floor and wrapping her up in another. The older maid stood behind her, carefully drying off her hair, while Prella emerged from behind the screen. She hustled over to the stove, dipping a little clay cup into the pot and placing it on the edge of the stove to cool. She then turned to the trays, eyes flitting between little bottles for a few seconds before settling on a little white cream. Covering her fingers with it, she rubbed it on Myrcella’s neck, the scent of lemon verbena reaching her nostrils. 

Once she was dry, she was brought behind the screen where the girl with the stained dress was waiting. A garment of patterned silver silk was draped over one of her arms, snowy white wool over the other. Hung up on one of the edges of the screen was a dark gold swath of brocade.

Prella ducked outside the screen for a moment, returning with the cup, still steaming slightly. “Drink this quickly, please, Your Grace.” It was a thin, green liquid, swimming with brown herbs. “For the nerves.”

Marcella's throat stung when she gulped from it. It tasted of something strongly bitter masked unsuccessfully with a sweetener. The herbs lingered on the back of her tongue even after she finished the cup, and she had to swallow thrice to get them off. Prella positioned her in front of the mirror, wringing her hair out one more time to make sure it was dry. The other girl placed a cold hand on her back, compelling her to straighten up. She gently laid the wool over the chest, flapping out the silk cloth and fitting it on her.

Myrcella had imagined her wedding dress so many times. She had always pictured marrying in the summer, wearing a dress with thin straps that bared her ankles. It was always evening in her fantasies, fireflies humming amongst the candles and the husks of cicadas clinging to the trees.

She hadn’t ever thought of anything like this. The bodice crossed over her chest like a robe of king’s landing, but the thick ivory wool was warmer than anything she’d ever worn there. A little length of string tied in a loose bow hung from the bottom of the neckline, right between her breasts. The sleeves were tight above the elbow, but loose from that point on, hanging all the way to her knees. The undergown could be seen through a long slit in the dress by her left leg, and it’s sleeves, just as lengthy, stuck out from beneath the top layer. It’s embroidery was truly impeccable; shimmering silver vines, leaves and tiny roses. 

The cloak was heavy on her back, gold with curling black spirals. A black wolf’s pelt hung around the shoulders, and thick straps of leather intersected over the chest. Prella ducked behind the screen and returned with the comb in one hand and a little piece of metal in the other; a hair clasp shaped like curving antlers. She combed back the hair on the top of her head, fastening them away from her face, and bundled several locks of hair together and threw them over her shoulder. For a few seconds, Myrcella stood still in front of the mirror, being adjusted and readjusted before the girls stood at her sides, satisfied. 

She looked, even to her own eyes, like an entirely different person. 

The hinges of the door creaked as they swung open. The maids turned, and nodded their heads in respect. Her grandfather was still wearing his armor this evening. It was a sign of distrust, but ultimately, making sure he didn’t get shot was more important than feigning faith in the northmen. He had had it freshly oiled though, judging by how the breastplate shined. Tywin loomed over everyone else in the room, older than them all by at least fifty years and taller by almost a foot. 

“I take it you’re finished.” He said. 

"Yes, M'lord." 

Tywin strode calmly up to Myrcella, raising one hand to run his finger along her hairline. It should have felt affectionate, but the only thing she felt from him was a sense of inanimacy. She was reminded of a child touching the face of a mossy statue, feeling for an unrealistic feature, a failure in the art. 

His eyes found her hands, and his mouth quirked down. “Did you leave behind the ring I gave back to you yesterday.”

 _The stork ring._ She had forgotten about it entirely. 

“It’s in my dress pocket.” 

Tywin hummed, glancing over at Prella.

"Retrieve that for me."

Obedient, she stepped carefully over to where the day dress was folded, finding the ring and quickly depositing it in Myrcella’s open palm.

“Put it on.” Tywin said, his tone polished to the perfect combination of commanding and condescending. 

Myrcella slid it down her ring finger, the metal cold on her skin, still warm from the bath. She was confused as to why he had even remembered her ring, before the stork’s diamond eye gleamed in the candlelight, bringing on the realization. Of course, it was so obvious; the white bird, the child bringer. She knew why he wanted Robb Stark to see this on their wedding night. 

If Tywin Lannister realized that his granddaughter understood the message he was trying to send, he didn’t show it. He took her by the shoulder, iron gauntlets hard against her maiden’s cloak.

“Come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robb's POV up next. Thanks for reading, and tell me what you thought!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, on his wedding night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I've had a very busy month.

Silverhill’s godswood was a far cry from any of the Northern forests Robb had ever seen. In Winterfell, the trees had felt hallowed, but not abandoned; men, women and children could oft be found kneeling beneath the weirwood to pray, nobleborn and smallfolk alive. Silverhill’s weirwood tree felt more like an ornament in a museum than the alter of a holy place; since none of the westermen worshipped the old gods, these woods hadn’t been used in years. Bramble crowded around the trunk of the weirwood and grass grew freely on the path leading up to it, untrodden by pious boots. 

The evening sky was a dark, all encompassing blue, the stars and moon hidden behind clouds which were invisible in the darkness. His fingers ached in the cold, even through his gloves, and his cheeks were as numb as stones. The edges of Grey Wind’s fur bristling against his thigh was the only warmth he could find, and even that was more light pressure than heat. Robb felt more like he was waiting for an attack than a bride, though the two weren’t so different, considering the circumstances. 

The wind blew hard and long, shaking the flames of the torches lining the path. The sound of it’s moaning contained such grief, he would almost have thought it a response from nature; a signal that it perceived his unhappiness, and shared it with him. Behind him, his mother shuddered. Catelyn was the decided officiator of his wedding, seeing as Robb didn’t have a father to speak of. Her position behind him, ready to recite the ceremonial words and prompt the vows, was a constant physical reminder of Ned’s absence, of _why_ he was absent. Of who he was marrying. If the air was cold already, that only made it colder. 

Sansa stood at the head of the northern procession, just a few paces to his left. She was resplendent, a shape of shining color over the night’s backdrop; Robb still found himself looking back at her and back at her, unbelieving that she was the same girl he had grown up. She was almost his height now, her hair lengthening all the way down her back, as thick as spun silk. Her hands had gotten stronger,her cheekbones risen high on her face, garbed in a long cloak, the dark blue of House Tully, with a grey fur around the neck.

They’d had a room prepared for her the night before she was returned to them, but Sansa had ended up falling asleep on the couch in his mother’s chambers, just before the sun began to rise. She and Arya had sat up all night at a table, talking and weeping and laughing through the night. Robb wished he could have joined them, but he’d been up half the night with his lords planning their return to the North. His mother had stayed with him for the first hour or so before going to join her daughters. Robb could’ve felt happy for her, watching her leave the tent, if he hadn’t envied her so powerfully. 

Lady Walda was stationed at Sansa’s side, her daughter Roslin (wrapped up in furs like a little ball of string) sitting docile in the arms of her husband. Hareth was an older man, on the low end of fifty, with severe, bony features and black-brown hair streaked with silver. The child could almost have been his and not Roose’s, were it not for the distinct pallidness of her eyes. Beside him was Dacey, wearing chainmail beneath the green wool and leather of her dress. Theon stood to her side, then the Greatjon. Robb couldn’t see the faces of the men past him, though he could barely make out the short figure of Harald Karstark in the crowd. He hadn’t thought the interim Lord Karstark was going to appear tonight; the lord understood the need for his match, but was no less palpably disgusted by it. Lord Glover met the news with a solemnly respectful disposition, admiring of what he saw as a self sacrifice, but Karstark was more aggrieved than he was reverent. Harald had kept asking about how much power he was going to give her, what she’d be responsible for in the running of the country. Even if his sympathy for the Karstarks was extremely limited, _(he could still remember the blood staining Willem Lannister’s fingers, the residue of his last attempt to stifle the gushing of his wound,)_ Robb understood where Harald was coming from. They had fought too long and too hard to submit to a foreign ruler, gods forbid a Lannister one, but as Robb had repeatedly reminded him, they weren’t submitting to anyone. Myrcella’s power as Queen depended entirely on him, and his orders outweighed hers in every capacity. Robb’s marriage was a test of his lords faith in him. The people had wanted him to end the war before winter, and he had succeeded; if their faith had to be tested at all, he was glad it was now. 

Robb had doubted Arya was going to appear tonight as well, but unlike Harald, he didn’t see her face anywhere in the crowd. Of course, she’d been dissatisfied when he first told her of his marriage, but not too adamantly or too loudly, to his surprise. That was before the hostage tradeoff. She had seemed to think that once Sansa was returned to them, Robb would call off the whole affair and return to Winterfell unwed. She was decidedly unhappy to be found wrong. Arya had spent most of the day stalking after her brother, arguing from behind his back. He wasn’t paying much attention, but he caught a common theme of legacy and security, of justice and flimsy principles and their father, just once. He had dismissed her rather aggressively after that little comment, and Arya went to find Lady Catelyn. 

Robb scanned the crowd with his eyes one more time, finding nothing. That was fine, he supposed, let her make her bloody point, but he’d have been lying to say he wasn’t bitter that his sister wouldn’t be at his second wedding, just as she wasn’t at his first. 

The Lannister procession was to his right, though there weren’t many members of the actual house there with them. Lord Tywin’s goodbrother, a knight named Steffon Swyft, stood at the front, one hand fixed firmly on his niece Rosamund’s arm. He found it hard to square her with the girl he’d traded off; she looked more proper than he’d ever seen her, dressed in black velvet with her hair braided into a crown. Her cousin (or perhaps her sister?) Joy stood a few paces from her, eyes wide, shoulder to shoulder with the Banefort girl. Her thick dark hair was strewn about her shoulders, a pendant hanging from her neck. She was pretty, the sort of girl Robb may have liked, given what he knew of his own preferences. Behind her was a tall fellow with a long nose, and after him the new Lord Serrett, just two days into his freedom. 

The slow, rhythmic falling of boots on snow could be heard down the path. Robb raised his chin, his back ramrod straight. 

Myrcella didn’t cling to her grandfather’s arm the way his last wife had. Roslin had held on to her father like a post in a violent storm, long fingers encasing Walder’s elbow, the fear in her face cloaked under white lace. Even with her hand on his arm, there was almost a full foot of distance between Myrcella and Tywin. They almost could have been strangers. 

Myrcella drifted over the snow, looking straight ahead, though not at anything in particular. Her eyes, forest green and swimming with light, focused in on his for a second. Robb wasn’t sure what expression he was wearing, but it must not have been good, because they glazed right back over again, still fixed on his but not perceiving anything. She wasn’t smiling - it wouldn’t have been taken well, he didn’t think - but she wasn’t outright frowning either. That would’ve been taken worse. Her hair was swept away from her face, one section of it draped over her shoulder, the fine locks like ocean waves turned gold under the sunset. The way her hair shone in the light reminded him of Joffrey; Robb remembered joking about how unmasculine his fair locks were. Her skin was flushed pink in the cold, and he could smell something like lemon coming off her. The gown she wore was a combination of western and northern styles, loose and flowy but still covering her substantially. 

Grey Wind tensed at his side. Robb rested a hand on the back of his neck, steadying. Oh, she was beautiful. _Of course she is,_ he thought, and the maiden’s cloak was a burden on his arm. 

Tywin stopped before him, a blacksmith presenting a highborn client with a finely hewn sword.  Catelyn took two steps forward, her voice breaking the air. 

“Who comes before the old gods this night?”

It was laughable that neither the officiator, nor the bride, nor the man giving her away worshipped the gods they were marrying before. It was only because of him that they were reciting these vows, in this place. Robb thought he should have been reassured, but it just felt like a falseness. 

“Myrcella of the House Baratheon comes here to be wed.” Said Tywin. “A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

He wondered if she found this very strange or very primitive, or just foreign. Tywin spoke like he’d been worshipping the old gods his whole life, but he saw Myrcella’s jaw twitch on the last part of the sentence. Her grandfather kept his gaze firmly off Robb’s wolf, acting as if he didn’t even realize it was there, but Robb caught Myrcella’s eyes flickering down to Grey Wind a few times. 

“Robb of House Stark." He announced. "King in the North and the Riverlands. Who gives her?”

“Tywin of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock.” He let a beat pass. “Her grandfather.”

“Princess Myrcella.” Catelyn said. “Do you take this man?”

That was her cue to speak. Myrcella stepped forward, not releasing her grandfather - instead running her hand down Tywin’s arm. 

“I take this man.” 

Her voice was like a cross between both of his sisters, high and young like Arya’s but articulate like Sansa’s. Off in the distance, a blackbird cried. _If they were birds, Myrcella would be a house finch._ He thought. _Sansa a cardinal and Arya a wren._

Robb felt the urge to swallow, but didn’t. The finality of his situation, the irrevocability of marriage he had been spent the day running from, was lurking in the back of his mind, making itself known.

She extended her hands, ungloved, and he took them in his grasp, resting his thumb on her middle knuckle. Her dress creased as she kneeled, following his lead after he took a knee in the snow. It was freezing through his pants leg, too cold even to be wet. 

Robb bowed his head, shut his eyes, assumed she did the same. This was a moment for prayer, though it wasn’t specified what to pray about. He prayed for Sansa’s health and joy. He prayed to keep the war from them, for Stannis and Joffrey to both die, as one wouldn’t allow them to keep their independence without a fight ( _another_ fight) and the other would rule as a tyrant, no one left to abate him. He prayed for a fast ride home and safety for the Night’s Watch, for Arya as she grew and his mother as she aged. 

And a child. He should be praying for a child. A son would solidify their union, kill the chance of reopening hostilities if someone slit Myrcella’s throat in her sleep. Jon was lord commander now, his continued living wasn’t sure enough for him to be an heir, and Bran wasn’t grown yet, though he was getting close. A son off his wife, to continue his line and solidify his union.

Robb opened his eyes, no more time left to pray. He rose, taking Myrcella up with him.

The maiden’s cloak - grey wool embroidered with white and silver flowers, crusted with pearls, with a grey wolf’s pelt - had scraped the ground when he knelt, and was dusted with snow along the edges now. He doubted anyone would notice it, and even if they did, it seemed appropriate. He pulled the Baratheon cloak up off Myrcella, passing it to his mother. She seemed curiously vulnerable without it in the short instance, under neither her grandfather nor his protection. Still, it was not sympathy which drove Robb to take each end of the Stark cloak and sweep it over her shoulders, completing the task in one smooth motion. He had imagined this moment before, and covered her no quicker or gentler than he had in his mind.

At that point, the complete, unbroken silence which had taken over when the ceremony started seemed to loosen, though no one spoke aloud. Robb bent at the knees, fixing one arm around the backs of her thighs, the other around the small of her back. He leaned forward to hoist her into the air, her whole body tensing as he did so. He could hear his mother sigh softly behind him, here footfalls and the mutterings of the crowd, signifying the end of the ceremony. Tywin turned and began to walk off, and Robb strode past him, his elbow scraping the lord’s shoulder. Grey Wind trekked behind, breathing loudly. 

He didn’t look at anyone in the crowd, the weight of Myrcella’s body a heavy strain on his arms. The door opened up for him, a servant waiting behind it, and into a short hallway leading to the Great Hall. 

When freshly cleaned and recently dusted, the antiquity of Silverhill’s main hall could have been taken as charming. Candles hung from the ceiling in black iron holders, the room glowing with bright orange light. It made the flags of House Serrett flanking the wall seem more gold than cream. A raised dais was set with chairs for four. Robb placed Myrcella in the seat to his left, settling beside her with a huff. His direwolf curled next to his leg, resting his chin on Robb’s foot, tired after a day of endless walking. The hall began to fill before him, lords and generals filtering in through the main doors. 

“You did well.” His mother said, arriving through the side-hall Robb had come through. Snow was caught in the fur of the brown pelt hanging from her neck, dampening the dark, river green gown she wore. “My own wedding was held under southron traditions; I had forgotten how… intimate northern ceremonies are.” She settled directly to his right, covering his hand with her own. Just as she did so, music began to play. 

Robb hummed. Lord Tywin was entering the hall, taking a seat at the table closest to theirs, his good brother and niece settling next to him. It would’ve been politically insensitive, but he was entitled to come sit up on the high table with the rest of them, given his status as family of the bride. Robb could assume why he didn’t; it was a very open position, up there on the dias, and Tywin didn’t want to get shot through by a high-up arrow before the night was done. _Maybe Myrcella should join him._

“Did you see Arya?” Robb asked, though he could guess the answer.

His mother’s face fell. “She went off into the woods with Nymeria, just over an hour ago.” She said. “She told me she was going hunting, though not in kind words.”  
  
Robb knit his brows. “What did she say?”

Catelyn shut her eyes, shook her head. “It was nothing.”

He decided it wasn’t worth inquiring into. “I sent a raven to Castle Black this morning.” Robb said, crossing his legs. Servants emerged from the doors, moving through the tables with pitchers of wine. “I let Jon know that we got his letters, and told him what’s happened. I’m going to ride to Castle Black after we return to Winterfell. I’d like to see the state of it myself.” 

“Give it time before you leave. A month at least.”

“I had planned to.” A young woman approached his goblet with a pitcher, filling it with what smelled like blackcurrent mead. 

His mother nodded at that, giving him a sympathetic look and his hand a gentle rub before rising from her seat. She went down to the table Maege Mormont sat at with her daughter, falling in to what looked like deep conversation the moment she sat down. Maege and Dacey would be returning to Bear Island soon enough; after all their time together, he would miss them. 

Sansa caught his eye, coming up to the seat beside Myrcella. Some strands had escaped her braid, but her expression was relaxed, her cloak trailing behind her on the floor. “You look lovely.” She said, throwing one arm over the rest as she sat. A rare smile was on her face.

Myrcella returned the smile, though it was more stressed. “As do you, Lady Stark.” She said in her house finch voice, clasping her hands in her lap. 

“The official term is Princess now, I think.” Sansa said. “And yours is Queen.”

Myrcella gave a breathy laugh. “Yes, I keep forgetting. About my title, not yours.” She added. 

“It’s alright.” Sansa rose her goblet to her lips, sipping from it lightly. “Changing your patterns of speech like that takes time.” 

Robb watched his sister drink from across the table, and Myrella voiced his concerns. 

“I thought you didn’t like alcohol.” 

She shook her head. “Mead is light on the tongue ...” 

Robb turned away from them, surveying the crowd before him. It was quieter than it would’ve been if this were a truly happy occasion, but the music was still muffled by the sound of a hundred voices, gradually growing louder and more raucous as the mead flowed. Theon was leaned over the Lannister table, trying to get the Banefort girl to dance with him, and the Greatjon was watching a knife game between his son and Hareth Tallhart. His wife had a silver brooch on the table, betting on who would win. He could sense some unease in the tables closest to Tywin, or maybe it was Rosamund who was the target of their disdain, lounging in her chair like Silverhill belonged to her, unveiled hatred in her eyes. There was also little Lord Serrett, who was sitting hunched in on himself next to his steward, the only member of his house still alive. The boy was palpably miserable, consumed with grief and fear, and neither him nor his servants looked happy to be feasting Northern invaders. Conflict simmered beneath the surface, buried but present in the room. Robb hoped the drink and the noise would bury the tension deeper, at least for a few hours. 

And he didn’t hope in vain; it only got louder when the food was brought out. A steaming roasted duck, stuffed with farro, apples and hazelnuts was set on the table before them, along with a flagon of Arbor gold to wash it down. Next came bowls of creamy mollusk stew and a loaf of artfully scored bread, and mushrooms cooked in red wine and garlic. Robb served himself lightly, and was popping mushrooms in his mouth when he realized exactly how long it had been since he’d eaten. He carved himself a thick slice of duck, and thought, for an instant, that it would be polite to offer some to Myrcella.

He banished the idea. She was spreading blue-veined cheese over a slice of bread, listening to Sansa talk about something in a voice too hushed to hear. The way she acted was… restrained, like she was resisting the urge to eat in a way that wasn’t ladylike. When she was finished, she rose from her seat, Grey Wind’s paw swiping out to try and catch her dress as it fluttered behind her. She left the Stark cloak on the seat behind her, bypassing the crowd of men and women dancing to make her way to Lord Tywin’s table. She stopped in front of her cousin, cold faced and hostile as ever. Rosamund leaned back in her chair, the defiance visible even from meters away. She was entering his household too, Robb thought. Her all too quick transition from haunted and violent to prim and catlike was jarring enough on it’s own; informal hostage or not, he wasn’t eager to bring Tywin’s niece back home with him.

“You-”

Robb gave a small start, head swinging around to find Sansa leaned over her chair, closer to him. She chuckled at his reaction, the laugh like an ancient song he hadn’t heard since infancy. 

“Your hair is defrosting.” She said, gesturing to him. He had bathed in the lake earlier, and the cold air had frozen the moisture he hadn’t managed to dry. Now, it was turning wet.

Robb ghosted his hand over the back of his neck, feeling the dampness. “Ah. It is.” He said, trying to smile for her. “It felt good to wash. I’ve been hard pressed to find the time for it, this past week.”

“I’m glad.” 

He cut off a piece of duck, but didn’t put it in his mouth. 

“You look very nice, actually.” Sansa said. “But I can get you a towel if you’d like.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“Your wife isn’t fond of the snow getting in her hair.” She remarked, chewing a mushroom. “She’s afraid it will beget sickness. Someone should teach her warmer sewing patterns if we’re going up North.”

For a few moments, Robb just looked at her, even after she stopped talking. It took her a second to realize, and when she did, her brows rose on her head. “Am I bothering you?”

Robb shifted in his seat, pitching his voice lower than he had intended to. “Sansa.” He said, lips hardly moving at all. “Are the two of you friends, somehow? Is there some part of this you’re not telling me?”

Sansa shut her eyes, giving a small laugh - more of an exhale, really. _She used to giggle at everything,_ Robb thought. 

“Friends is a strong word.” Sansa said slowly. “Myrcella didn’t appear in court very often. We only ever saw each other at dinner, after father died, but she’s skilled at dancing and gardening, and is fond of animals. She used to go out to the bay with Tommen to help him fish. Don’t be surprised if she brings the Seven Pointed Star with her up north, I believe she’s read all seven books.” 

Robb said nothing, grim faced. “Are you happy about this?”

“Not happy. But if it had to be one of them, I’m glad it was her.” 

“It’s not like there was an alternative.” Robb said. “Myrcella is the only woman in her family suitable for a royal wedding, though Theon seems to think Joffrey might have a quim hidden in his trousers.” 

He had meant it as a joke, but Sansa didn’t laugh. He could see the grimace tugging at her features, even as she stifled it. “I would avoid mentioning Joffrey at all.” Her voice wavered on the name. “At _all_ , Robb. The memory of his pinched face isn’t much of an aphrodisiac.” 

Robb was going to speak, to apologize, but he was distracted. In the back of the hall, a short, cloaked figure stood in front of the door, half obscured by the people surrounding her. A lead grey hood covered her head, but she drew it back slightly, meeting eyes with Robb from across the hall. She wasn’t smiling at him, that much he could tell, but he could still make out Arya’s long, hard features. He braced his arms on the chair, preparing to go down and see her. 

If only Lord Glover hadn’t spoken up at that moment. 

“Your Grace.” He said loudly, voice rising up over the racket of the crowd. He was standing above his table, his cheeks flushed red with drink. “All religious proceedings have been performed. The vows have been exchanged.” A din of laughter grew from the crowd. “Silverhill’s cook has no skill, perhaps we can dispense with dessert and move on to the bedding.”

He had expected more time. Robb rose to face the crowd, the growing chant of “To bed! To bed! _To bed! To bed!”_ quieting when he stood. 

“By your leave, Lord Glover." He said. "Take us to bed."

Myrcella, who was sat down at her cousin’s table, gaped up at him, one hand still holding on to Joy’s. The Greatjon shot up as fast as a weed, stomping over to where she sat. She barely saw him coming before his arm swung down around her waist, hoisting her up into his arms. She yelped, eliciting a bark of laughter from the men around her. He tugged loose the tie on the front of her dress, carrying her towards the doors.

Sansa took Robb by the shoulder. She unfixed the straps on his cloak with nimble fingers, but didn’t remove it.  

“Be careful.” She said. 

He understood why she said so; in a second, Dacey had him by the hip, throwing his cloak to the chair behind him. She urged him down off the dias, where Walda Bolton waiting for them, grinning wickedly. She grabbed Robb’s belt, tugging it off. He doubted they were strong enough to lift him (except maybe the Mormont women,) but Robb still couldn’t push back against them, as if he were being carried off by a current. He tried to find Arya’s face again in the crowd, but couldn’t, even as he was herded out of the hall behind Myrcella, attended to by the wives and daughters of his lords. They were speaking, but he couldn’t make out whole sentences through it all. Walda said something that ended with the word “wrist,” and all of them broke into raucous laughter. 

Robb was relieved of gorget, gloves, and couters, and his jerkin was half-removed by the time they got to the bedchamber. The men (a much larger group) were ahead of him, Theon stumbling behind them. 

“Y’should write to Joffrey tomorrow morn, Your Grace.” He suggested, droopy eyed and drunk off his arse. “Tell him just how good his sister’s cunt felt.”

Myrcella, clinging to the Greatjon’s shoulder, visibly blanched at the comment. One of the men holding her took the boot from her foot her foot and tossed it at Theon’s head, eliciting a roar of laughter from the crowd. 

He was dropped in the chamber behind her, the women talking and giggling the entire time. The hard slam of the door cut them off, reducing the gaggle of voices from a clamor to a murmur. Robb stood by the door until the sound faded out entirely, until all he could hear was the blowing of the wind outside and the slow breathing of the woman on the bed behind him. 

The chamber had been prepared for their wedding night. A fire was set in the hearth, crackling at volatile intervals, and the curtains on the canopy bed were drawn open. On the table, two cups of wine sat beside a metal pitcher, next to a book. Black furs were spread out over the brown coverlet, and that was where Myrcella sat, knees up to her chest. She had been stripped of all but her small clothes and her ring, her hair hanging looser, and a few stray tendrils hung over her forehead. She watched him reservedly from over her knees, lips tight. When he noticed it, he held her gaze for a few seconds, until she looked away. 

Robb felt a heaviness in his stomach, like he’d swallowed a stone. 

As if it would somehow lighten the load, Robb tugged his jerkin off his chest, undoing the laces on his shirt beneath it. He kept himself from observing Myrcella’s reaction to this, kicking his boots off to the side of the bed. He had meant to strip naked, but he stopped short of removing his trousers, the bareness of it suddenly unbearable. Instead, he strode over to the hearth, the creaking of the floorboards as loud as possible under the nighttime silence.

Usually he would’ve at least sipped the wine, if not outright gulped it. But this was Silverhill, and the serving men and women here were decidedly not fond of him. He doubted anyone would attempt to poison him a day before he left, but he’d learned caution over optimism since riding out with a host the first time. It hadn’t failed him yet.

 _Caution over optimism._ Hadn’t his mother told him something similar about his marriage last night? It wasn’t bad advice, but his mother was always so full of ideas and suggestions. It became tiring after a while, even if he knew her to be wise, and it often felt more obvious than helpful. He had told her just that last night, that he didn’t need to be _told_ to be cautious with Joffrey’s sister. Catelyn had said… he couldn’t recall what Catelyn had said to that, but he had found it reassuring. 

The book in front of the hearth was leather bound, new looking and titled “Every Last Day.” On the first page was an image of a young woman with black curls dressed in demure white samite, smiling shyly at the reader. He flipped through the pages until he saw the next image - the same woman, dressed normally this time, grinding in a mortar and pestle. Skipping all the way to the end, Robb got an idea of what the book was about; it tracked a woman’s fertility and pregnancy, from her wedding night to the child’s first nameday. 

Behind him, he heard the floorboards creak again, and the rustling of blankets. Robb straightened up immediately, turning around to find Myrcella had stepped off the bed. 

“How is Bran?” She asked hastily. The name left her mouth a little strangely, with greater stress on the last syllable than was typically used. It was a northern name; he could’ve expected she wouldn’t say it correctly.

She had no right to ask, Robb thought, but he couldn’t stop her. Or rather, he wouldn’t right now. “He’s fine.” He said, only lying a bit, but his voice was colder than he had meant for it to be. The tone was hard not to notice, but she didn’t flinch. 

Myrcella’s shoulders slumped, her chest deflating slightly. For a moment, neither of them said anything, and Robb curled his toes against the floor just to focus on something. 

He sighed. Dipping one thumb under the hem of his trousers. The hair on his thighs stood up when he bared them, and Robb stepped out from where they bunched up at his feet. Myrcella blinked for just a second too long. Her eyes, seeming much darker in the low light, were wet, and he cringed to think that she would start weeping. 

When she didn’t, Robb took three steps closer, slowly, until he was within arm’s length of her. 

Robb had been with women before. He’d been with plenty of women before, really. His first was a girl named Alyssa, a wintertown farmhand, thin with dark brown hair and freckles all over her body. He snuck her into his chamber when he was sixteen, her a virgin too back then, and the two of them coupled thrice before they were satisfied. Another was Leerie, a candlemaker’s daughter, a short haired, thickset girl with long, pale legs. He’d broken her maidenhead up against a wall in the armory closet late one night, her having drawn him in by his vest. The two of them had barely spoken before then, but the randomness and hurried fervor had just added to the eroticism of it all, the loud slap of skin on skin bringing him to his peak in minutes. And then there was Roslin; lovely, gentle Roslin, who came to adore lying with him after overcoming her initial shyness. It was always in bed with her, usually half clothed, though there was one night she stripped completely and rode him with an uncharacteristic intensity. He couldn’t stay with her throughout the sickness, but he hadn’t left her room at all on her last day. That helped him, sometimes. 

Usually, he undressed himself as well as whoever he was with. It had always been spontaneous; he had always known what to do with their bodies without really thinking about it. Now, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to wait for Myrcella to take off her own clothes or do it for her without being asked. She made the decision for him, fingers rising up to undo the laces on her corset. When finished, she pulled it down, removing her smallclothes in one, shaky motion. 

Her breasts moved gently with her chest as she breathed, round and heavy, the nipples beginning to harden in the cold air. The curve of her hips down into her thighs was smooth - he wondered what the back of her looked like, all of a sudden - and there were bright golden curls between her legs, like vines on the entrance to a garden. Myrcella’s arse must be high and firm, he thought without wanting too. Her shoulder blades must stick out a bit _(he could put his hand between them)_ and her legs must wrap so tightly, so strongly around his waist. She must cling. 

Robb set his jaw, adam’s apple bobbing gently as he swallowed. She was wholly,  _foully_ tempting, the sister of the man who killed his father. Her relation to the deed sounded more tangential when he considered it then, of course, his mind coming to the conclusion his body wanted it to. _She’s a woman, she’s your wife, she’s innocent, so why not plunge your cock into her and make her a little less so?_ He forced the words out of his head, and they came back cruel and sour. _Robb Stark, so your unlike your namesake, who fucked so many whores the people still sing songs about it. When you’re presented with another noble virgin to deflower, you turn your nose up at her, in all your pride._

Myrcella turned suddenly, as if she’d been waiting for him, folding back the covers to the bottom of the bed with stiff movements. She lay down on her side, knees bent slightly, waiting. 

His time left to stall depleted, Robb knelt on top of her on the bed, taking her hip in one hand _(the skin was smooth as satin)_ and laying her on her back. Her gaze burned into his, frightened but unobjecting, and Robb had to avert his eyes when he slid his hand between her thighs, cupping her sex. 

Robb dipped one finger between the folds. Myrcella was quiet, but her whole body shuddered. 

Her cunt was hot over his cold finger, but humiliatingly dry, and rough when he tried to stroke her. Robb withdrew, taking each of her knees in hand and spreading them gently apart. His cock was hard already; it wouldn’t take him much time to finish. 

But Myrcella’s face was utterly unmoving, rigid so as to hide her terror, and he could picture it twisting in pain in time with his thrusts. It didn’t please him to think he would enjoy this, but it pleased him less to think she would suffer so greatly in the loss of her maidenhood, and he would simply push through it. It was a step above rape, only a fraction less shameful. 

Robb let go of her, moving backwards down the bed until his head was between her legs. He looked up to find Myrcella staring at him, openly bewildered. For some reason, it incensed him. 

“This will ease the way.” He told her. “It will hurt less.”

When she didn’t respond, Robb turned his head down, the tip of his nose brushing her sex. He wet his tongue, parted his lips wide, and licked. 

Myrcella’s breath shook as she gasped, a whimper attaching itself to her voice at the last moment. With the tip of his tongue, Robb traced her opening, dragging it up to the crest only to turn downwards and lave the flat of his tongue over her cunt. Her thighs tensed, stiff but unable to completely stop their trembling, and the next time his tongue slipped between her lips he could feel her contract around him. 

The whine that stole from her throat was stifled and desperate, accompanied by an unmistakable gush of wetness flowing smoothly against Robb’s tongue. He rested his hands on either of her thighs, half to hold them in place and half to feel the skin there, and flicked his tongue over the plump, hardened nub at her apex before taking it between his lips to suck. That brought another sound from her - a moan, high and flat, through tightly closed lips - and moisture wetting his chin where it nestled into her cunt. Robb slid his tongue inside her, the tip wriggling within, twisting it around until he felt her hips buck into his mouth. 

 _“Oh.”_ He could hear from Myrcella, her voice hopelessly strained. The feeling was obscene, the heat of his tongue against her sex, his wife’s breathing rapidly hastening as he readied her for his cock. Robb ran his tongue along her cunt once more, enjoying the taste, sweet and syrupy, the sound of it an indecent squelch. She was as slick as a riverstone, hushed noises escaping her mouth in between heavy breaths. Tentatively, tongue still attending to her, he pressed his finger against her entrance, letting the muscle spasm once, twice, before inserting it.

The fit was tight, no doubt, but he could feel her loosen with each stroke, her body reacting to the stimulus with eager acceptance. It felt good to engulf his finger in such blazing heat - _his cock would fit perfectly there, would fill her every crevice -_ and he pressed gently against the sides of her passage, working it open. She was well prepared now, shuddering like a leaf; he could’ve risen up from between her legs if he wanted too. But he didn’t want to, he found with some dismay, adding a second finger. He wanted to see if he could make her wanton, brazen, make her plead with him to fuck her, rough and unrelenting. He wanted her to be hungry for him, to shove her tongue into his mouth and grind her hips against his. He wanted her to fall to her knees and please him with her mouth, to spread her legs as wide as she could and touch herself in time with his thrusts. Robb would not let himself love Myrcella, but lust, he could accept, if only because he couldn't deny it anymore. 

He was pumping his fingers in and out, to the knuckles, when she let out a loud, shocked cry. She arched her back off the bed, legs jolting furiously as she reached her peak. One of her hands threaded into his hair, bringing him closer, compelling him to pleasure her through it. He obliged, running his tongue along the sides of his fingers until she let him go. When he arose, a strand of moisture followed his lips, her cunt shimmering. 

“By the gods.” He heard himself breathe, straightening up. His cock was flushed and aching, as hard as it had ever been, a droplet of seed already springing up from the head. It was good she had already come, Robb thought, even if he hadn’t meant for it; he wasn’t going to last very long. On Myrcella’s face was a dazed, baffled look, her lips hanging open and sweat plastering strands of hair to her forehead. One second, her eyes were blown wide, and then they drooped, exhausted. She stared at him with a combination of surprise and expectancy, as if she didn’t know her body could do that, as if she’d done something wrong and expected reprimand. 

 _If it’s punishment she wants, you could flip her over and redden her arse._ The thought would have sounded filthy fifteen minutes ago. Now he just wondered if she’d let him. 

Robb grabbed her by the hips, pulling her down to a better angle. “I have to finish.” He said lowly, a moment passing before she realized what he meant. Fear crept back into those green eyes, but she looked more worn out than anything, ready to fall asleep right then and there. 

“Hold on to me.” She wrapped her arms around his back, one hand gripping his shoulders. 

Robb guided his cock to her entrance, the broad head wedging between her lips. He pressed inside with relative ease, her body relaxed, but still, Myrcella shut her eyes as he slid inside to the hilt. 

Robb let out a long exhale, savoring the moment. He swore beneath his breath, shifting just to feel her passage shift with him. He was wrapped in heat and sopping wet flesh, her cunt squeezing his length fitfully. Robb withdrew slowly, reluctantly, grasping her waist between his hands, until only the head remained inside her. With a grunt, he plunged back in hard, the pleasure pooling in the base of his stomach. He groaned through his teeth, drawing out halfway and thrusting back in, repeating the motion several times before he fell into a rhythm. The will to restrain himself left him, his thrusts growing faster until the bed rocked from the force of the movement, his breath coming in rushed, ragged pants. He wanted to fuck her for hours, to loose himself in that sweet, wet cunt, but he was already prepared to spill before he’d even started. Myrcella’s behavior didn’t help; all decorum had gone from his wife now. On each thrust, she gave a soft, throaty moan, her release having rendered her oversensitive. Her breasts bounced beneath his chin, and Robb chose to bury his face there, taking her teat in hand and kissing it harshly. He could feel his peak coming, building up to the overflow, and on a whim, he pressed his lips into Myrcella’s, the hair on his chin scratching her bare face, his jaw outthrust to kiss her more aggressively. 

The fire crackled wildly behind Robb as he came, groaning into her mouth, spilling himself deep in her with perfect abandon. The sensation was blinding, fantastic, no room for his tact or his guilt or his hate or anything else at all. For a minute, he just lie there, still thrust to the hilt, her breasts pressing into his chest. Finally, he found the strength to roll over onto his back, mouthing some expletive he didn’t put voice to. As the pleasure ebbed away, he was left with only satisfaction, only the desire for the warmth and sleep that lay right at his fingertips. 

Myrcella pulled the blanket up to her neck, covering Robb where he lay next to her. Outside, the wind blew, calm and cooling. He felt like he should have done something else, should have said something else, but he ignored the urge to rise from bed or to search for the words.

_I am a husband once more. Again, the North has a queen._

Robb let his eyes fall shut, and slept. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of the wedding is taken from Sansa's wedding to Ramsay in game of thrones as well as the asoiaf wiki page on marriage. 
> 
> I'm not sure of the next chapter's outline yet. Tell me what you'd like to see!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Myrcella, on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went on a bit of an impromptu hiatus after summer ended; sorry about that. I'll do my best to keep updates more regular. This is a long one, and it switches between POVs once.

Myrcella Baratheon’s hair matched the autumn leaves in color. 

Robb, his mind clouded from sleep, thought the comparison to be quaint. Sudden movement from the other side of the bed had woken him a while ago, and rather than get up with her, he had rolled over onto his side and feigned sleep. There was no time to spare today; the sun was almost risen and he had a meeting with the lords at daybreak, but he’d been lying there watching her for almost a full ten minutes. He resolved not to contemplate the childishness of his hesitation (risking lateness to a council meeting because he didn’t want to talk to his wife, _by the gods_ he was slipping) until it actually caused him a problem, but still, the urge to get out of bed grew with each passing second. 

Robb shifted, taking care to be as quiet as possible. _She still thinks I’m asleep._ It was the only time he had ever seen her act like he wasn’t there. He wondered if there would be some dramatic difference in her behavior, but there wasn’t much room for that here, all but alone with no one to talk to at this hour of the morning. Her wedding dress was crumpled on the floor near the table, and she’d taken a sheet from the bed to wrap it around her shoulders, the white cloth trailing behind her like it had last night. Her walk was slow and jaunty, as if she were in pain, when she’d gone to the window to overlook the lands as the night faded away. He couldn’t see what she saw from where he lay, but the morning air reached him, heavy with the smell of dead leaves and burning wood. It took him a moment to notice; the vervain she was wearing distracted him, having rubbed off on his chest and chin last night when they were coupling. 

He had always taken care not to spill his seed inside a woman, forcing himself to withdraw and spend all over their thighs. It was good, he remembered thinking, so absurdly _good_ to allow himself to finish within her, knowing whatever child their union produced wouldn’t have to suffer as a bastard. The pleasure was blinding in the night, but it shamed him now, the memory of himself grunting and panting like a hog fresh in his ears. Aside from that, she was limping now; he very well might have hurt her. 

_(It will hurt less,_ He had told her last night _,_ his mouth hovering over her cunt. The taste was sweet and hot, burning on his lips, and she had clenched and quivered and whined at the touch of his tongue-)

Robb very nearly flushed. He could dance around those thoughts all he wanted, but she wasn’t like to forget the experience anytime soon; he still remembered his first time, after all these years. His knees were stiff as logs, his eyes fighting to close. _You should rise._ He thought. _Rise, greet her, say good morning. Make an attempt._ A frown pulled at his lips - he didn’t feel very much like making an attempt. 

He flexed his legs and straightened his back, preparing to do it anyways, when the door hinges creaked.

His eyes fell shut without him thinking.  _Craven._ Someone, a woman judging by the weight of their footfalls, swept hastily into the chamber, the door shutting behind them. No leaving now, Robb supposed, not while he was still unclothed and there was a stranger here with them. 

“Good Morning.” Myrcella said, tone familiar, yet surprised. “I thought you’d be back in the camp.” 

The stranger scoffed. “The camp” is well on it’s way back to Casterly Rock. Not even a straggler remains, it’s just a field now.” The western accent was thick in her voice. So, one of her cousins, then. Robb had never been so aware of his own nakedness. 

Fabric rustled, and the two fell silent for an unusually lengthy moment.

“Yes?” Myrcella finally asked.

“Was he rough?” 

 He almost opened his eyes at that. 

“No.” His wife said, just above a whisper.

“Then what’s this?” The other girl asked. Robb couldn’t say what she was referring to. 

“That’s nothing.” 

The other girl was far from shy. “Did you even have sex?”

“We _did_.” Myrcella insisted, humiliation in her voice. “I know we did, please, it’s…” Robb didn’t hear her say anything else. 

The other girl sighed. There were footsteps, moving from one end of the room to the other, and Robb opened his eyes just in time to see a skirt flutter out the door. The wedding dress was gone, and the bedsheet was discarded on the floor in front of the window. For a second, he just lie there, recalling every time he’d been accused of inaction when he was still early in his kingship. 

The moment passed, and he slid out of bed, taking his pants from the floor and pulling them up his legs. Throwing his shirt over his shoulders, Robb returned to the bed for his belt, laying near where Myrcella’s foot had been. Right when he finished dressing, someone rapped on the door, the loud irreverence of it allowing him to guess who it was. He strode over to open it, fixing his jerkin as he went. 

Theon stood waiting outside, smiling and alert even as he nursed an obvious hangover. Curled against the wall in the hallway was Grey Wind, his body rising and falling slowly with his breath. Robb would let him sleep through the morning; he had a long walk ahead of him today.

“Sleep well?”

“Oh, piss off.” He was only half joking. 

His smirk widened. “Should we go to breakfast?” Theon asked, turning. “Or do you plan on surviving entirely on mead and southron pussy?” 

Robb scowled. He wondered if he was just making a jape, or if he’d actually heard them and guessed. They did that at some weddings; the guests lingered behind the door, listening, making lewd suggestions. He  doubted he would’ve noticed if they’d stayed. 

“There’s no time to eat today.” He said, following Theon out into the hallway. “There’s a meeting of the Lords at sunrise. I’ll find something on the road.”

“Who’s overseeing the breaking of the camp?” He asked. “I saw Lady Catelyn going up to the Solar.” 

“Sansa, with the help of Lord Forrester’s son. My mother wants her to start learning leadership.” It both impressed and saddened him, how quickly she began to impress upon his sister the duties of leadership. Sansa would be more open to it than Arya, though they were both at marrying age. _A problem for another time._

“It’s an awful big camp to use for practice, is it not?” 

“That’s why Forrester’s there.”

This was to be their final morning at Silverhill. Even as they spoke, no Stark men lingered in the halls, no weapons were left to rest on the tables, and the serving men and women moved more freely than they previously had. Robb didn’t see the young Lord Serrett, though he passed by the Steward who’d been hovering over him last night. For the first time since they’d arrived there, the man didn’t bow as he passed; he didn’t even meet his eyes. 

The Lords convened in the old Lord Serrett’s solar, a high up chamber with low ceilings, thin windows and a faint smell of dust. Two or three men could work comfortably enough there, but the dozen or so assembled lords were forced into close proximity, unable to move about freely. Robb thought it hazardous; regardless of their shared loyalties, some of his lords were less than fond of each other than others. It didn’t really matter - this was only a one day arrangement - but still, he took note of who was glaring at who. 

All conversation quieted as he entered the room, signalling the call to order. His mother, already dressed for the road, held the seat to the left of the head of the table, and Theon went to take the seat to the right. The Greatjon, who’d been having words with Lord Karstark, was hunched over the table, leaning on his elbows, a definitive signal of irritation in the man. Lord Forrester must have noticed it too, because he was leaned ever so slightly away from him, intent on avoiding his brewing outburst. 

Arya only attended these meetings sporadically, but she had chosen to appear today, lingering in the background behind Lord Tallhart with a knife twiddling in her hand. Her eyes flitted to him when he entered, her expression unreadable, but they had been trained on a man standing by the door. Amongst the lords, he stood out, clean shaven and dressed in commoners clothes. A manservant of some kind, Robb suspected; he had that sort of demeanor. He turned his head down, shuffling quietly out of the room. 

He went to take his seat, the group parting for him as he did so. Arya greeted him. 

“Your Grace.”

Even if his little sister insisted she had no patience for politics, Robb imagined she would have been quite good at it; she had a way of speaking without words, packing whole paragraphs into short phrases and minor expressions. When she was cross with him, the “Your Grace” honorific spat from her lips like venom, all mocking and malevolence; Arya never did anything without her complete effort. She wasn’t using that tone then, just a very diluted form of it, soft and almost apologetic but cut with a general dissatisfaction.

“Sister.” Robb answered, as casual as ever. 

Their mother cut in, moving to begin the discussion. 

“Tywin is on the march back to the Westerlands.” She said, passing to him a scroll, bound in red parchment with a broken black seal. “He received this yesterday evening, and sent it over this morning. We’re likely to receive one of our own before the week is up.”

“How neighborly of him.” Robb commented beneath his breath, taking it from her and unraveling the paper. 

“Stannis Baratheon is on his last leg, but still, he refuses to relent.” Hareth Tallhart said. “The Lannisters have him holed up in Dragonstone. Just like the olden days.” 

“...the one true King Of Westeros acknowledges and rebukes your treason.” Robb read aloud. 

Lord Karstark leaned over in his chair, his fist raised to his chin. “Man in his position shouldn’t be making more enemies.” He said. The Greatjon scoffed. 

“All Stannis knows how to do is make enemies. Damn good reason no one wants to follow the king of foreign gods and burning bastards alive.”

“This isn’t his hand."

Several sets of eyes converged on Robb, but he didn’t look up, examining the weathered parchment. “A scribes, then?” Theon asked, confused.

"That isn’t what I meant. The phrasing, the words, it doesn't sound like he has in the past."

His mother had noticed it.¨The writing is distinctly different.” Catelyn said plainly."Perhaps it was composed by his wife, or another member of his court."

The possibility dangled in front of him, and Robb grasped it. “Is it at all possible that Stannis has already died?”

Tallhart spoke up first. "Possible, but doubtful. If he had been struck down, they would have declared so. He may be indisposed.” 

Robb bit the inside of his lip. _Indisposed_. 

Lord Karstark looked more interested in those words than he had in anything else. “If Dragonstone falls, Stannis’s forces will have no choice but to surrender.”

“No choice?” The Greatjon asked, incredulous. “Baratheon’s forces are depleted, his fleet destroyed, and now he’s fallen bloody ill? He’s already got no choice. It hasn’t stopped him yet, it will never stop him.”

“Whether Stannis is crushed or he surrenders isn’t of any concern to us.” Tallhart shot the letter a black look. “Whatever happens, it’s an empty threat. He’s doomed.”

“So we might focus on the coming winter.” 

“Coming” isn’t the right word, anymore.” Arya said. “The neck is half frozen already, from what we’ve been told; by the time we arrive back in Winterfell, it’ll be buried in snow.”

Robb hadn’t seen a proper winter since he was six, but still, he remembered it well enough. “How does Bran fair?”

“We have the stores to survive a twelve year winter. By the time it sinks its teeth in, that number should have risen to fifteen.”

“My wife writes that wintertown has nearly filled up.” Lord Karstark cut in. “The streets are more crowded than ever, and the guards are stretched thin trying to keep the peace.”

Robb didn’t miss the implication. “Their numbers will increase once we return.” He said. “Does Lady Karstark plan on wintering at the castle?” He had never met the woman; he hadn’t even known Harald was married. 

“She’s gone to advise your younger brother, Your Grace.” He said agreeably. “I’ll imagine she’ll return to Karhold after your arrival.” 

In the end, they spent the bulk of the morning in Lord Serrett’s solar, re-reviewing the path the army would follow back North and how the stored food would be built upon and divided. The topic of the Night’s Watch came up, and the Greatjon resolved to have a force assembled at Last Hearth to march north of the Wall if it came to that. Lord Manderly’s son, the less fat of the two, thought they were getting ahead of themselves, but he had never put much stock in the situation North of the wall. It made sense, Robb supposed; the Manderlys were one of the southronmost houses, they had had a much easier time of handling the wildlings which fled south of the wall. The word “White Walker” was never uttered outright; it had a way of derailing the conversation, the fantastical nature of the threat making it difficult to talk about in a formal setting. Lord Forrester’s younger son was still unconvinced they existed, Robb sensed, even though he had given up on voicing that disbelief. 

When the chamber began to clear, Arya slipped out fast, carefully sidestepping the larger men exiting the room. He made a mental note to talk to her after they got on the road; not while they were riding of course - the royal family arguing in front of their lords and armies was something he would rather avoid - but after they stopped for the night, he would speak to her then.

“Thinking about your Lady Love?”

Theon distracted him from his musings, leaned over to mutter in his ear.

“I wouldn’t mock me now.” Robb told him. “You’ll be wed soon enough.” 

“Ah, I’ll never marry. A hundred years from now, your golden haired sons can drag me out of Winter town’s whorehouse by my long white beard.” 

It was funny, but Robb was saddened by it somehow, reminded of his distant youth. “I would’ve said the same six years ago.”

Theon seemed to perceive it. “You always knew you would marry a stranger.” He told him. “Really, I remember it. I never heard you tell yourself any lies.”

“Not this particular stranger.”

He frowned deeply. “Oh, poor Robb, with his pretty wife and his thriving kingdom and his massive fucking castle.” 

He stood, clapping a hand down on his shoulder as he did so.

“Enjoy her.” He said. “You deserve her. Just don’t make a habit of telling her how lucky she is you haven’t killed her yet, hmm?” His eyes weren’t smiling anymore, even as his mouth didn’t waver. “I promise, it gets tiring after a few years.”

Robb watched his friend leave the chamber, swallowing the urge to respond when he failed to think of something to say. Theon had struggled in Winterfell all his life; it was palpable for as long as Robb’d known him. The dirty looks and the snide comments and the ever present feeling of _separateness_ bothered him more than he would ever let on, and the Lannisters were hated in a way that the Greyjoys never were. It was only possible to avoid one’s spouse so much, and the griefs of his family members had a way of impressing themselves upon him; Myrcella would be miserable in Winterfell, and Robb would be miserable with her. 

He would not accept that. He would not sit back with his feet up and allow five then ten then twenty years to pass in resentment and bitter silence. There was little he could do to improve the mood of the people where it concerned his marriage beyond maintaining their fragile peace and producing a healthy heir, but Myrcella was right there in the camp with him: she was a woman, not a general attitude held by the people nor her wretched older brother. Robb could never forgive himself wasting his years wallowing in misery, especially if they were to raise children together. 

He pushed his chair back from the table, swearing it to himself as he rose. At some point, he would talk to Myrcella. 

“Your Grace?”

Robb very nearly swallowed his tongue.

He had six years of battle experience under his belt, and even before that, had never easy to sneak up on, but he’d thought the chamber was empty - and it was. The speaker was leaning in the doorway. It was the servant, the beardless man who made his exit before the meeting started. Once Robb set eyes on him, he swept into the room, far more confident than he had been. The door fell shut behind him.

Robb hadn’t a clue who he was, but he was clearly about as Northern as a white sand beach, his skin pale and his hair bronze in color. His hands looked like they’d never seen a day of work, thin and soft-looking, like a woman; Robb tracked their motions closely as he approached him, squaring his shoulders.

“Your Grace.” He repeated, clasping his hands behind his back as if reading Robb’s thoughts. 

There was a dagger on his belt, and Robb reached down to grip it. 

“Yes?” He asked, perhaps more rudely than was warranted, but the man was behaving less predictably than servants usually did. What kind of servant was he, even?

“Who are you?” 

The man smiled in a way that was just short of good natured. “My name is Ossifer, Your Grace.”  He said, dropping to one knee before him, bowing his head. “I’m a footman in the service of the Hand of The King. The Hand of the Southron King, specifically.” 

_A footman. Of course. A Lannister footman._ Robb ran his thumb over the knife’s hilt. 

“You should be returned to Lord Tywin.” He told him. “The message has been received. There is no more business for you here.” 

Ossifer rose from his knee. 

“Forgive me, but there is, Your Grace.” Robb tensed when his fingers dipped into his sleeve, but he withdrew nothing more than a slip of rolled paper. A smile tugged at the edge of his lips, as small and sly as a lizard. 

“And I am not in the service of Lord Tywin.”

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Myrcella could not decide if she was happy to be alone. 

Rosamund, Ellyn and Joy would likely be riding leagues behind her, in the very back of the procession with the rest of the serving men and women. It wouldn’t have been perceived as strange for a princess - a _Queen_ \- to keep a travelling companion, but she had lost track of Rosa in the commotion of their departure from Silverhill and hadn’t seen Joy or Ellyn all day. Once or twice, she leaned her head out the window and perked her ears, trying to see if she could hear their voices somewhere down the line, but all she there was was the chatter of men and the squeaking of the caravan wheel. Up ahead, Sansa was riding with her mother and siblings - Myrcella had only seen her once before they got on the road, and there had barely been any time to speak. All in all, she was beginning to grow lonely.

Well. She should have been lonely. She was in no state for company, if she was being completely honest with herself. Outwardly, her cheeks were flushed pink and numb with the cold, but on the inside they started to burn at every errant thought. The place between her legs was sore and empty, the pain making her walk jaunty and slow. Myrcella was changed; laid bare, more vulnerable but less delusioned, older and younger all at once. She never thought this transformation - this loss of maidenhead, of innocence - would be so palpable. She had thought she would feel the same after. 

Women were obligated to quell the carnal needs of their husbands, regardless of their own enjoyment, but Myrcella couldn’t imagine what enjoyment Robb could possibly have gotten out of- out of _that_ . It had felt good, unbelievably good, her heart beating like thunder with shame and lust and shock, so hard she thought it would burst right out of her chest. She was still trying to wrap her head around what had happened at the end; the furious white heat, the lasting, full body shudder, the incredible urge to tighten her thighs around his head. Nothing had ever felt so bizarre or so wonderful, the pleasure swallowing up all fear and inhibition, burning out all the energy left in her body. Gods, she'd embarrassed herself, moaning and writhing like an untalented whore, shoving her hands in his hair, _taking part_. In her minds eye, sex had always been a one sided act; the man got on top and thrusted and the women shut her eyes and lie there. She had never imagined anything half so lewd or so creative. Perhaps it was wrong of her to allow him to perform such an act. Perhaps it would have been wrong to tell him to stop. 

Did Robb take pleasure in tasting her, in devouring her as much as was possible, or did he just like watching her squirm, watching the effect his ministrations had on her? The former perspective was far less flattering to him than the latter. Had the war turned him vengeful, made him direct his desire to humiliate her family onto her, or had he always been that much of a sadist? 

Sadist didn’t seem the right word, though. An entire morning spent mulling it over had allowed her to accept it; it _had_ felt good, all of it, and if suffering and distress was all he wished to make her feel, there were a litany of other methods he could have employed, more harsh and less satisfying. _If it was about pain, he would’ve just beat me. Or at least, been less… considerate._

Myrcella felt her face flare up again, and crossed her legs. 

The westerlands were beautiful in a way King’s Landing never was, the sky as bright blue as hydrangea petals, the trees swaying in the wind, many of them already bare. It was a fine fall day, even if fall has all but left them. Out the window, she saw them pass by grazing sheep and half-dead blueberry fields, scattered stone cottages and gristmills, abandoned carts of rotten wood, overrun with greenery. Once, Myrcella took note of a pair of children, a boy and girl, sitting in a field of dead grass flanked by broad leaved trees. A little wooden wheelbarrow sat ignored by their side; they may have been playing before the northern army came down the road. Myrcella watched as the two stared unwaveringly at the procession, the boy clutching the girls arm even though she didn’t seem much older than him. Abruptly, she heard a _clank_ from somewhere behind her caravan, and the two shot up and scurried off into the trees, the boy lagging a few feet behind the girl. 

The children were westerners through and through, tan and rangy with light hair and soft features. Myrcella could picture herself living in one of those little stone houses, mothering a son and a daughter like those two by a man of these lands. She had never gotten to experience her own culture; she had never even gotten to experience King's Landing in its entirety, growing up as sheltered as she had. Her fate was hammered into place; it seemed like a cruel jape, to be carted off North through an ancestral homestead that she would never get to appreciate. 

But Winterfell was where she belonged now, she had to remind herself, the endless stone walls and the sacred crypts, the glass gardens - _oh._

She felt her heart jump, one hand floating up to her mouth. Of course. Winterfell had gardens. 

Myrcella knew she wouldn’t be able to grow her own flowers, at least not like she had in King’s Landing; they were used primarily for growing food, Qarl had told her once, but maybe there was space for a few plants. She would have to visit them, would have to build a rapport with the gardener, whoever that was - had she met him on her last visit? Had she even gotten the chance to go to that part of the castle? No - she remembered asking her mother all through the visit if they could go down to the gardens now

The caravan jolted furiously as it ran over a stone. Somewhere down the line, horses neighed, and she heard a man curse in a manner that reminded her very much of her father. Robert had rode ahead of them on their voyage to Winterfell, and at night, would sleep in a pavillion with his Kingsgaurd and his Lords, far from his children and wife. One night, she snuck away from her mother to go sit by the fire with him, certain he would send her back. Instead, Robert had wrapped one massive arm around her shoulder and held her like that all through the evening as the men told stories and passed a wineskin. Her face had hurt from smiling, Myrcella remembered. She had never felt so loved. 

It didn’t last, she told herself as the grief began to sink in. The king had drank and drank, began to hold her a little too tightly, and very nearly flung her to the ground in his haste to stand and run after his squire when he changed his mind about an order. She stalked off back to her mother's tent with a morose expression and a stain on the part of her dress where his hand had rested, and found Cersei how she knew she would find her; sitting in her red gown with a glass of cranberry wine and a blanket about her shoulders, awaiting her return. For some reason, her mother hadn’t been angry at all, and let her go straight to sleep without comment or punishment.

_She knew,_ Myrcella realized right then. _That he had disappointed me. That I had gone to him, and he failed me somehow, failed to live up to my expectations._ That was why she wasn’t angry with her; because she knew she was already suffering. 

Her own children wouldn't feel so ignored by Robb, she suspected. If anything, he would take her sons as his own, insist on taking the lead role in their upbringing in his cold, unimpeachable way. She didn’t think he would mistreat her, at least not in Robert's way, but she couldn’t picture what their everyday life would be like. If he didn’t want her company, or just wanted her nearby to berate her as Joffrey did to Sansa, she could avoid him; sleep in separate rooms, dine apart like her parents often did. The looming possibility of spending her life that way was frightening, but overshadowed by a general sense of discombobulation - like the floor had been torn out from underneath her, and she was still falling through the sky. Two months ago, she had been living in the capital, waking and rising at the same time every day, her days and duties planned out for her by her family and attendants. Queen or no, she suspected the Stark women would run the household duties of Winterfell, as they had before the war; her intervention on that front would not be well received, that she knew. Beyond that, she had no idea what her daily duties were, how she was expected to go about them, how her husband’s Lords and people would react to her doing so - _q_ _ueenship_ spelled _autonomy_ , didn’t it? But exactly how much autonomy was she offered? 

It was amazing that nobody had bothered to explain that to her that before she got married, in their haste to wash her hair and smooth her wedding gown. Eventually, she would have to ask her husband. It was not a conversation she looked forward to. 

Myrcella had expected a painful ride when she was stationed in the caravan that afternoon. In a rush, she had only had a moment to grab a piece of embroidery from the carriage containing her things, and was otherwise entirely unoccupied in the caravan. It was a bolt of black fabric with white lace designs, a project that had sat ignored in a chest in her chambers for months. It was a little unsettling to picture some servant rifling through her things to put them in a northbound carriage. She got through six lines of stitches and poked as many holes in her hands before remembering why she put it aside in the first place. 

She hadn't been entirely wrong. Staring out the window lost its charm after a few hours, and the empty seats on the other end of the caravan only served to remind her of her missing handmaids. The royal family rode around the head of the procession; wasn’t it an indignity for her to be the only one sitting in a carriage, with the noble ladies or not?

But the sun went down faster than she had ever seen it do so, the knowledge that the days would only get shorter looming over her head. In King’s Landing, the night sky was grayish purple at its darkest - here, she could barely see five inches beyond the candle mounted on the wall, and the flame wavered with every gust of wind. For half an hour after sundown, Myrcella sat shuddering in the dark, trying to distinguish shapes in the empty blackness out the window. 

Finally, the procession came to a halt, and the carriage driver opened the carriage door with a torch in hand, the light stinging her eyes after so long in the darkness. He led her several meters away, almost tripping over a large stone jutting out of the ground. She barely heard him mutter a form of address before setting to work, starting the fire and erecting the tent. He was a grizzled old fellow, with thick arms and a walrusy grey mustache, who set up her lodgings with quick, jerky movements and then took his leave, stalking off down the procession with his coat tugged tight to his body. 

He didn’t say ‘by your leave,” she realized after he was gone. _My brother would have lost his mind._

Even after he left, she wasn’t truly alone - for miles, camps were being made close by the carriages, carts and horses, just as they had been the last time she’d gone North. There were no pavilions, only small tents that were easily put up and taken down. The night was wet and cold, not ideal for firemaking, but slowly she saw them spark up. Far off to her left, she could barely see the head of the line, where her husband must’ve been sleeping. His tent looked like it may have been bigger than the others. 

For some reason, she scoffed. 

Myrcella edged closer to the fire, her legs stiff after so long spent sitting down. She hovered her hands over the flame, wiping loose curls away from her face to keep them from catching. Rosamund had risen early to find her a cloak for the trip, and presented her with a bolt of heavy black fabric as long as her entire body, more of a blanket really. Rosa dressed her as she knew she preferred to be dressed; she had always liked the Baratheon colors, and the sea green and juniper of house Estermont looked beautiful in the summertime when the sunlight was at its strongest. Red was a nice color on poinsettias, but she had always felt something like an imposter wearing red gowns, almost like she was trying to be her mother.  

She wore white on Maiden’s Day, a holiday she couldn’t celebrate anymore, and had never had any thoughts about grey. Who knew if she would ever feel like she belonged in the Stark colors? Who knew if her children would?

A man was moving down the procession, a companion trailing close behind him. Going through the camp beside hers, they sidestepped a woman she recognized as Lady Bolton, sitting beside the fire with her little daughter. It was the driver, she realized as the two came into her space. In one hand, he held his torch, and something else in the other. 

“Y’Grace.” He said lowly, extending a bowl in her direction. Myrcella blinked, taking from him a bowl of assorted rations; bread, goat cheese, a small piece of honeycomb, a handful of pine nuts and smoked fish. 

“Isn’t wonderful.” He said, scratching the side of his head. “Road food never is, but.” 

She smiled at him, her heart warming. “Thank you.” Myrcella said clearly, meeting his eyes. 

His features softened for a moment, but the man behind him’s didn’t. He was putting on an odd show of trying to examine her face and not meet her eyes at the same time, one hand thrust in his coat pocket. 

The driver glanced back at him over his shoulder. “Pray excuse us.” He said. “My name is Emmet. This is Arvid, captain in the service of Lord Tallhart.”

“Your Grace.” Arvid said with a half-bow, his face remaining stony. 

“Hello.” She muttered, taking a seat on the dead grass beside the fire and resting the bowl in her lap.

“I’ve some business with him, tonight, if you’d allow it.” Emmet said. He towered over her from this vantage point, his neck craned down to look her in the eye. “I won’t be gone long.”

She blinked. “Of course, go on.” 

He smiled. “If I can be of service, don’t hesitate to ask.” 

His friend shot him a look, and the two turned away. 

“You can call me Myrcella.” Myrcella said after him. It was far less than proper, but he would be driving her for ages, they should know each other’s names. Something about that thought that made her heart sink, the prospect of sitting in that carved wooden box for what, three months? Four, when the weather worsened? She could find something to entertain herself in her things, she supposed, but how much could one really read, how many blankets could they embroider? On the last ride North, she’d been bouncing off the walls by the second month, and then she’d had Tommen to share the road. Her handmaids had just been locked in a room with her for a month; she didn’t want to force them back into the same situation. 

The driver was directing Arvid towards the carriage - the horse in front of the carriage, rather, she realized as they got closer to it. 

Emmet raised one hand to it’s mane, stroking it’s neck with the dry affection usually reserved for animals. 

“Hear he is.” Myrcella heard him say. “Eighteen hands high - almost that much, but the markets won’t tell the difference. Ser Jeor had ‘im put out to stud with one of his own last year, got two healthy colts out of it.”

“Is it slow?” Arvid asked.

“Only with the carriage on ‘im.” Emmet said. “He handles carts and riders fine, just can’t take the heavy weights no more.”

Myrcella listened closely, fisting her hands into her dress. The beast grunted, one hoove scraping the ground impatiently, like he thought they would resume riding soon. _Poor thing,_ she thought. _He’s been worked too hard._

She watched as Arvid rooted around inside the pocket of his cloak. “How much do you want for this great brute?”

“Five silver.” Emmet told him. “And the mare. Why are you letting go of that one, anyways?”

“The merchant I found only wants Stallions.” He withdrew something small, silent for a second. “He’s giving me ten silver for this one.”

“You told me that already.” Said Emmet. “Ten silver’s the price of two horses. The one you’re giving ‘im and the one you’re giving me to replace this one. It’s fair.”

“Exactly!” Arvid said harshly. “There’s no extra coin, I get nothing out of it! I’m just passing you two your new horses!” 

“You can have your five silver for this one.” He said. “I’m keeping the bloody mare.” 

Emmet’s voice fell quieter. 

“That is King Robb’s own wife.” She caught, and suddenly Myrcella felt much larger and more awkward than the sum of her parts. “The carriage needs to be pulled.”

Arvid huffed. “King Robb’s own wife.” He repeated. 

The next part, she could not hear, but it wasn’t said kindly. Myrcella swallowed a mouthful of saliva she hadn’t noticed was collecting, listening to the fire crack

“You can just give me the mare, then.” She heard Emmet say, gesturing with one hand. “A horse for me, a horse for the merchant, and five silver kept for you, you bloodsucking go-between.” He thrust his flaming torch into Arvid’s hand, and turned. “You unhook him and bring the mare down. I’ve got to go get the saddle.” At that, he went off, his steps heavier and faster in his anger. Myrcella watched him leave. 

Before she could think about it, she was standing up, stumbling on stiff legs away from the fire, towards the carriage.

When she reached him, Arvid was untethering the horse from its bonds, lifting the heavy wooden bars flanking it’s body with one hand, the other holding up his torch. He had thin hair and short legs; small for a man, but still bigger than her. She wiped the hair from her face, drawing herself up tall. It took him a second to see her, and he said “Your Grace” in the tight way that implied he hadn’t thought she could hear them.

“Pardon me.” Myrcella said. Arvid rose up fast from his task, startling the animal into a sharp whinny. 

She got a closer look at the Stallion under the light of the torch; he was a dappled dark grey with a silver and white tail, his ears poking out sharply atop his head.

“Did you give him a name?” Myrcella asked. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“The horse.” She asked, an idea taking form in her head. “Does he have a name?” 

Arvid straightened his back. “Durran, I believe.” He said. “The breeder was a Stormlander.”

_What are the chances._ Myrcella extended one hand to run her fingers through his mane, the hair soft and dry. “How much are you paying for him?”

There was a pause before he spoke. “It’s more of a trade, Your Grace.” He said, slowly and clearly.

“You’re giving him a mare.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And for Durran, you’re being paid what, five silver?” 

“I- Yes, Your Grace.” He said. A faintly irritated look was tugging at his features, despite his best efforts to stop it. 

She nodded. 

“Would you accept two gold dragons?” 

He didn’t answer her.

“I don’t… think I have more than two with me.” She dug one hand into the pocket on the inside of her cloak - there was a little brown container of yellow cream, her signet ring, and three coins jostling around loosely against them. She pulled out two gold coins and a single copper, and put the latter back where it was. 

“I’ll pay you for him.” Myrcella said, offering up the two coins to the man. “I want to ride tomorrow.”

She wasn’t sure how welcome she would be riding next to Robb, but there was a gaggle of lords, generals, advisors and guards that trailed behind the royal family. She wouldn’t seem dreadfully out of place slipping in amongst the procession somewhere, even less so if she wore a veil to cover her hair. 

She would have to ask Robb first, of course, and the name awakened a dark feeling in her, the memory of him stood tall over her in her cell and knelt beneath her in their wedding bed flashing through her mind. But he wouldn’t object, she didn’t think, at least not if she wasn’t riding abreast with his own family. 

Arvid’s gloved fingers scraped over her palm to collect the coins, and he stowed them away in his cloak as soon as they were his. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He finally said, and almost sounded like he meant it. 

That night, two horses slept beside the camp; a shire mare the color of ivory, and Durran, the grey percheron which she would ride come sunrise. She fed him a handful of pine nuts, and picked the loose twigs and dry leaves from his mane. Emmet slept on a bed roll laid out inside the caravan - there was nothing improper about it, she supposed, now that she wouldn’t be using it anymore. the driver’s seat, and Myrcella retreated into her own tent when a group of men passed by. The tent was cold and dark inside, the light from the fire barely reaching through, but the bed roll was thick brown fur, bearskin most likely, and was big enough for two of her. She was considerably warm, even when the wind picked up, and the nightgown she’d retrieved from her things covered her substantially. 

There was the problem of the dark, though. With each passing minute, the fire outside burned lower and lower, and Myrcella’s sphere of vision grew smaller. There was a candle beside the bed which she hadn’t bothered to light, afraid something might catch fire as she slept, but the moon was well hidden behind rolling clouds and the camps were falling asleep, the torches being snuffed. She had always had sharp ears, and in the distance, leaves rustled and foxes yelped, bears swiped at stream water in search of fish, their final meals before starting the winter slumber. Or maybe it was just some soldier washing off. Somewhere, she thought she heard paws padding on the ground, as if some great beast were approaching. It was her imagination, she suspected; after the war started, she was always thinking she heard footsteps outside her chamber door only to rise and find nothing but a tired guard and an empty hallway.

Myrcella rose up onto her elbows in the dark, her hair dangling in front of her eyes though she couldn’t see it. Her hand groped around beside the bed, searching for the candle; she would light it on what remained of the fire, she decided. There was a chance it had dwindled too low to use, but there had been a couple sticks of spare wood stacked up beside the fire, hadn’t there? She could always rekindle it herself if need be. 

She found the candle, and, grasping it, pulled herself forward and out of the bed roll. The tent flap fluttered as she drew it aside, going out into the night.

Robb Stark must have liked surprising her. It was all he ever seemed to do.

The king was armorless for once, his sword not hanging from his belt in the place it usually did. He looked just as surprised to see her as she was, standing stiffly on the other side of the weakly flickering fire. The top knots of his tunic was undone, and his cloak was balled up under one arm. 

By his side, the great grey and white direwolf - Grey Wind, he was called - was blinking at her with honey yellow eyes, a curious intelligence swimming behind them. His nose was downturned into the bowl she’d been eating from, sniffing it shortly before flicking his tongue out to lap up what remained of the smoked fish. 

Myrcella heard herself take in a sharp breath, her chest expanding slightly. 

Robb looked distantly affronted. 

“I don’t mean to intrude.”

“I - no, you’re not intruding.” She moved quickly out from the threshold of the tent, the grass crunching under her feet. It was cold and stiff and threadlike, an extremely distinct feeling, like sand between her toes at the beach. The candle almost slipped out of her hand, and she tightened her grip.

He shifted on his feet, looking off for a moment. “Have you already retired?”

“Not exactly.” She said, moving closer to the fire. She knelt before it, the patch of grass where she’d been sitting still pressed flat.  _Does he want to sit?_ The two other logs sat by the dwindling fire, good and dry; she could just toss it on. “It’s dark in the tent, I just came out to light a candle. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all.” Robb said, removing his gloves. “I just wanted to see how you were getting on.”

_Just like he had when he came to my cell._ The direwolf, having licked the bowl clean, clamped his long teeth around it’s rim and padded over to where Myrcella was knelt, placing it at her feet like she would place flowers by a grave. 

“And he does too, apparently.” She said tentatively. _Didn’t someone at court once say this animal tore a man in half?_

Robb smiled earnestly at the wolf, stowing away his gloves. “Direwolves are wise animals. They perceive more than wolves or dogs, recognize patterns like men do. Since the day I found him, I knew he understood me.” 

Myrcella thought of Tommen and his kits. “I’ve never had any pets.” She said, not knowing what else to say. 

The silence that settled between them in the second he didn’t reply was unbearable, compelling her to speak for him, only to fill the space. “Can I touch him?” She asked, looking into his eyes, swimming with firelight. She used to be terrified of these beasts, she recalled

“You can try.” Robb said, as unflinching and kingly as ever. “I can’t promise you he won’t react hostiley.” 

Her fingers were already threading into his fur, running them gently over his head. He offered up no reaction, so she flattened her palm, stroking him more vigorously. 

“Do you want to sit down?” She asked, taking some petty enjoyment in the surprise on his face.

“Thank you.” He said, turning his head down as he came over to her. A full person’s worth of space remained between them, occupied by Grey Wind, who turned away from her to rest his snout on Robb’s thigh. 

Myrcella reached across his lap, muttering a quiet “pardon” and grabbing a stick of firewood. Sparks flew up into the air as she tossed it onto the pile, catching quickly. _If I aim to ride tomorrow, I have to ask at some point._ He seemed comfortable now, staring into the licking flames. She rolled her shoulders, edging closer to him to ask. _At worst, he’ll just say no._

“I didn’t mean to hurt you last night.”

Myrcella stilled, her mouth still open to speak. He looked to her for a reaction, their eyes meeting for a second before she glanced off to the side. 

“It wasn’t painful.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. On the first few thrusts, there had been pain, yes, a light burn she couldn’t really focus on in the heat of the moment. She was so wet, he slid in and out smoothly, the tightness only serving to emphasize a delirious feeling of _fullness._  Truth be told, she had barely noticed the pain. She had barely noticed anything else.

“I’m glad.” Robb said hastily. “I thought I might have hurt you, once or twice. You sounded pained.”  

“I didn’t mean to.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just… worried.” His gaze wouldn’t leave her, searching her face for something, what, she didn’t know. 

“Someone told me you took ill.” He said. “At Silverhill, in the dungeons there

Myrcella’s face fell despite herself. “It was a fever.” She scratched at the back of her neck, edging back away. “I’ve had them before.” 

“Was it hard?”

_Yes._ “No.” 

She must not have been a good liar - a disgrace to her King’s Landing heritage - because her words gave Robb pause, cracking each knuckle on one hand with his thumb in a nervous motion. 

“I am sorry.” He intoned. “For not paying closer attention to the four of you, when you were imprisoned. I was focused on the occupation - settling the castle, going back and forth with your family. I suppose I just assumed you would be alright.” 

Her hands curled to fists, her shoulders falling. It was such a sudden admission - she had been prepared to move on as best she could as if all of it had never happened, like she had to do so many times with her father and his drunken misdeeds. 

“I understand.”

“Thank you.” Robb said conclusively, and looked back into the fire. 

“Why did you put us in the dungeons?” Myrcella asked after a moment.

“You were prisoners of war.” He told her, his tone deeply uncomfortable. 

“All I know of war was what I saw at home.” Myrcella said, not sure if she was trying to absolve him or poke at his guilt. “But my brother, for all his sins, never put Sansa in the black cells. Not that he wasn’t- I don’t mean to _deride_ -” 

“I see your meaning.” Robb insisted, waving one hand. “I wouldn’t expect you to be warmed towards me. But your cousin mauled a soldier to death, I was expected to-” He made a sound that was half sigh and half laugh, seeming for a second as young as he had when they first met. “I was expected to.” 

Myrcella felt her jaw go lax. “That man died?” 

“He didn’t get to the maester fast enough.” Rosamund’s face flashed in her mind, a woman child stepping off the carriage in King’s Landing. “His eyes bled and festered.” 

_Rosa has never killed a man before._ “He was kidnapping us.”

“I know why she did it.” Robb said gently. 

“War does curious things to how we see death and life.” Somewhere far off, a woman’s cackled with laughter, a wicked sound breaking nighttime’s relative peace. “You kill soldiers knowing they don’t get to choose who they serve, knowing the younger ones haven’t lived their lives and the older ones have wives, children. Commanders try to aim for decency, be as honorable as they can be.”

“Like farmers.”

Robb looked at her questioningly.

“I heard, somewhere, that they try to make their livestock comfortable before bringing them to slaughter.” She explained. _I hope he doesn’t take that to mean I see him as a butcher._

He smiled. “Something like that.” 

“I should’ve acted more honorably towards you.” He said. “No matter what has happened between our families. For that, I’m sorry.”

Myrcella wanted to smile back at him; wanted to help him out of his boots and carry his sons like a wife was supposed to do. But he’d broached the subject - tapped innocently on the _family_ nerve, him, so painfully aware of how raw that wound could be. 

“Joffrey...”

_Do I mean to tell him what happened?_ She thought frantically. _That one night, before I had my first blood?_ Her mouth clamped shut at the suggestion. Robb was waiting for her to finish. 

“Never really surprised me.” She said instead, a confession, though a much less sensitive one. “Horrified, sometimes, but not surprised. Not even in his worst moments. I’m not blind to my family’s sins. One can’t be, we live so close to the Riverlands… somewhere along the line, it suppose it got lost. In all the bloodshed. I just. Stopped thinking about it, or maybe I refused to.” 

Robb’s expression was distant, his eyes unblinking. “Was he always like that?” 

“Less so when he was little.” She said, and felt a pang of sorrow, longing for the salt of the bay and the sun behind her bedchamber’s curtains. “It’s nice to be away from him.” She reminded herself. It didn’t feel much better. 

“And I think it’s good.” She said truthfully, intertwining her fingers in her lap. “What you and I are doing together. Putting an end to the war. It’s a good thing.” 

Robb blinked, and the awareness gathered again in his eyes, returning from whatever strange place he had gone off to in his mind. “It is.”

“After I first got married.” He said, contemplating his hands. “All anybody wanted to talk about was children. How soon we would have them, how we would conceive them, how to deliver them. Everyone has something to say.”

“I heard some of that after I had my first blood.” She chided herself internally - men didn’t like that subject. 

“You may fall pregnant before we arrive back at Winterfell. There’s a danger that comes with having children at the beginning of winter, but it’s wise to have an heir in place before the season starts, and we can’t exactly wait until it ends. Gods know when that will be. Bran has done well ruling, and he’s liked by the public, but he can’t conceive his own sons anymore. The Maester says Rickon is hunting grown elks on his own now, but he’s still half a child, no matter what they say.”

“I’m old enough now for sons of my own.” He said, half to himself. “And it would make my mother very happy. Do you _want_ children?” 

No one had ever asked her that. “I’ve always known I would have them.” 

“Of course.” Robb said. 

Myrcella wet her lips. “Do you have a certain name in mind? 

“What?”  
  
“I know some houses keep to a pattern. Half of all the Lannister men have names that start with _Ty_.” She prayed he knew what she meant, that it wasn’t just a southron thing. 

It wasn’t. “The Starks have followed those in the past.” He said. “It differs with every generation.” And then; “My mother wants Eddard.”

The words sounded forced from his lips. She tread carefully. “Do you want that?” 

He shook his head lightly, shame warring with resolve on his face. 

“It wouldn’t feel right.” 

For a short while, neither of them spoke, the wind stoking the fire, making it burn higher. A young lady dressed like a washerwoman hurried past Myrcella’s tent, rushing towards something farther down the line.

“You met my uncle Tyrion once, didn’t you?”

Robb seemed taken aback by the abruptness of it. “I did, not long after you left.” He said. “He did us a kindness.”

She nodded. “On the eve of his birth, his mother, my grandmother bled to death after delivering him.”

“Maester Luwin delivered all five of my siblings without much difficulty.” Robb told her. “You don't have to worry.” 

“No, it’s not that.” She said. The story had always turned her stomach, and they were on the topic of names anyways. “Joanna, she didn’t live long enough to name my uncle, so my grandfather did it for her. He’s called after Tyrion the second.”

Robb was visibly confused. 

“He was one of the Kings of The Rock. Tyrion the Tormentor, he was called. People say he loved nothing more than to _make women bleed._ ”

The realization didn’t take him long. “I see.” He muttered. “That does sound like Lord Tywin.” 

Robb looked like he meant to continue, but he stopped; somewhere in one of the tents behind hers, a loud _bang_ rang out, several voices heightening in excitement as something wood-sounding clattered. 

Robb rose from his seat, one hand extended towards her where she sat; he very well may have been telling her to stay seated, but she stood up anyhow. Down the line, a woman was screaming. 

Without even glancing at her, Robb stalked off, his wolf following close behind him as he headed down the line. Myrcella followed him, barefoot and shivering the farther she got from the fire. She was aware of the recklessness of doing so - she doubted he wanted her to come with him, and he would not be happy to see she did. But Myrcella stifled the feeling, the thin crowd of roused men growing thicker as they approached the source. 

They parted for Robb, and she trailed close behind him, careful not to get lost. “Is there a fight?” She asked. Gods forbid it was a battle. _No, no, my grandfather is not that stupid._

“Probably.” Robb said. He shot her a distracted glance over his shoulder. “You really should have guards with you.”

Outside of a brightly lit tent with a high, fluttering flap stood a woman, sticking out sharply in a dark purple nightgown. An older man who looked like a servant was holding her side, the two of them recoiled from something - two, no, three somethings - moving on the ground. A group was converged around the tent, all of them talking excitedly at once. 

“Arya!” Robb called out, sounding as relieved as he did bewildered. The crowd quieted in an instant, some of them rushing off away from the scene, all of them parting immediately for Robb to pass. 

With the new space, Myrcella could see the cause of all the uproar. On the ground, two young girls were interlocked, wrestling, although one of them was clearly winning, her knees on either side of the others chest. Another girl, dark haired with a long face, had a hand on her upper arm, trying and failing to drag her off. Both hands were fisted into the losing girl's hair, tugging her head off the ground and then thrusting it back down with the strength of someone twice her size. Short, high sounds escaped the victors mouth, not quite words but expressions of rage, and the girl holding her shoulder was calling out to her, her cries falling on deaf ears.  
  
“Get off her!” She shouted, a fleck of blood staining her face. “No- get _off!”_

Myrcella could not believe what she was seeing, would not accept the truth that lay before her eyes. It seemed almost surreal, in a terrible way, like a chapter from a forbidden book, or a vision from one of her fever dreams. 

_“Rosa!”_

Robb was moving towards the three like he meant to break them up - but he was too late. For half a second, all movement stilled, and the victor released the girls hair, head swinging around to face Myrcella as she made, very slowly, to stand up. Her bottom lip was puffy, blood streaking down her chin, and her eyes were blown wide like a stag catching sight of a drawn bow. 

Myrcella strode over to her, taking her by the elbow and drawing her up to full height. She pulled her arm from her grasp and took a few steps back, giving herself a small sphere of space. 

“She was goading her.” The dark haired girl, Arya,said, straightening the front of her tunic. “The smaller one. She wanted to make her…” She stopped to take a breath. 

Rosamund’s eyes scanned the scenery; Myrcella’s shock and horror, a slowly dispersing crowd, the girl still on the ground, one hand clutched to her breast. She must have seen Robb where he stood by his sister’s side, because Rosa shook the hair from her white face, scowling.

It was all Myrcella could do not to scream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm open to all suggestions. I hope you enjoyed, happy holidays!


End file.
